


Whispers

by mandylynn4



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Derek Hale Saves Stiles Stilinski, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, Grief/Mourning, I added non-canonical stuff, I suck because I'm super late, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Mental Anguish, Oblivious Scott, Panic Attacks, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Semi-Canon Compliant, Sheriff Stilinski drinks, Sterek Glompfest 2018, Story went another way because my muse sucks, Thriller, melissa mccall doesn't know how to help, no explicit abuse scenes - more mental than physical, stiles keeps secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-04-26 02:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14392644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandylynn4/pseuds/mandylynn4
Summary: It happens so slowly that Stiles doesn't really know what to make of it.Following his mother's death, eleven-year-old Stiles Stilinski is faced with not only his own grief, but his father's.  He takes refuge in his best friend, Scott's home.  He fits in with the McCalls - it's easy, like breathing.  It's like he's got two parents again and a brother to boot.  But soon, he realizes that everything isn't what it seems at the McCall house.It starts with nightmares - or that's what he's told.And then, he's not sure if he's awake or asleep.  He's afraid to tell Scott or his own father about his fears.  But one evening, things come to a head....there's an accident....and Stiles falls into the darkness.Years later, Stiles comes face to face with Rafael McCall again and it's like he's living a nightmare all over again.  He finds himself fighting to stay awake, terrified to go to sleep.  Derek starts to notice....but can he help in time?Written for the Sterek Glompfest 2018 challenge (but not completed in time unfortunately) for saltyfestivalstrawberry.  Prompt and YouTube Video Trailer in the notes for chapter one.  DARK - PLEASE SEE TAGS FOR TRIGGER WARNINGS!!!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saltyfestivalstrawberry](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=saltyfestivalstrawberry).



> I have 6 of 7 chapters completed and ready to upload. There will be a happy ending to this story, so keep reading. I'm not sure that there will be Sterek mature content, as I don't feel like a victim of this type of abuse would be quick to jump into bed with someone....:( If there's enough interest, I may write a follow up story about Stiles and Derek's growing into something more. Let me know in the comments. 
> 
> BONUS: If you want, here's a teaser trailer I made for the fic. It's sucky - I'm new to vidding and it shows. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pn-74zILRPM

~*~ Chapter One~*~

It starts after Claudia dies. 

 

It’s not blatant and it’s not strange enough that Stiles thinks twice about it - at first. 

 

It’s tight hugs from his best friend’s father, the evening after the funeral, Stiles’s face tight from dried tears and crushed into Mr. McCall’s lapels. 

 

It’s a shared joke while Scott’s taking a bathroom break between rounds of Mortal Kombat. Laughter and twinkling eyes.

 

It’s a litany of praise for small things, like getting an A on a paper or helping wash dishes after dinner on Friday nights when the Sheriff is on patrol. It’s an “atta boy” when he wins at a game of Horse at the park against Scott. It’s a compliment when he's dressed up for the lame sock hop he and Scott decided to go to, with a group of buddies and not a date.

 

It’s soft ruffles of floppy hair on Sunday mornings at breakfast after a sleepover, fast and not much different than what his own father would do.

 

It’s many little things over a year and a half. Little, dad-like things that are innocent and he’s too busy dealing with his grief to give much thought to them. From what he can tell, they're things Mr. McCall does to Scott, too, so he laughs or smiles and tries not to think about the funny feeling he gets when  _ he _ does these things versus when his own father does them. It’s like when  _ Rafe _ does those things, there’s a tingly-burning in the pit of his stomach - like the one he gets when he’s pouring water in his father’s whiskey bottle to dilute it. He feels guilty but doesn’t know why - because lying to his father is one thing, but he’s not done anything to feel this strangely around Mr. McCall, has he? 

 

Then, suddenly, it’s lingering fingers in his hair - staying just a tad too long. It’s brushing against him in the hallway that’s large enough for three people to walk through. It’s teasing jokes that make eleven-year-old Stiles uncomfortable and confused. 

He tells himself that it’s nothing, that it’s friendly and Scott’s dad is being  _ nice _ . Mr. McCall ( _ call me Rafe, Stiles _ ) is an FBI agent, for God’s sake. He’s safe and he’s friendly and he’s trying to be a good dad to more than just his own son. 

 

Stiles has to admit that over the past year, he’s missed his own father, who is alive but beyond the point of adulting when he’s home. Stiles has spent too many evenings wiping up spilled whiskey and hanging case files up from yarn strung across the kitchen so they can dry. He’s helped his father into bed and held him while he cried in his sleep. He’s lost and scared and tired of the stench of alcohol on his father’s breath. So many times, he craves escape so badly and he hopes upon all hope that his dad will pull through this soon and they can reach a new normal without his mother. That thought sends him spiralling into anxiety, so he tries to distract himself as often as possible. He has faith, though, that someday, he’ll come home and his dad will be clear-eyed and  _ back _ ; that there will be some radical change that allows his father to accept his mother’s death so Stiles can find safety in his arms again. It’s not now, though. 

 

He spends a lot of time at Scott’s. Melissa is warm and attentive when she’s home. She makes sure Stiles is fed and comfortable before her shifts and he catches her more than once checking on them when she comes home from the hospital. He feels guilty for leaving his grieving father at home, but he’s grieving, too, and Melissa is soothing that hurt spot in him better than his father is right now.

 

Scott’s smile is always sunny, which helps, too. He’s a fantastic distraction from the absolute hell Stiles’s life has devolved into. He’s able to forget about returning home to depression and loneliness and despair. He can spend hours playing the Playstation and laugh at fart jokes and pretend that everything’s alright. For those moments, when he’s with Scott, he can act like it’s just another normal day in Beacon Hills.

 

But, he can’t help but notice that not everything is perfect at the McCall’s. 

 

Some evenings, late enough that Scott is snoring, he will hear whispered arguments drifting down the hallway. Mr. and Mrs. McCall - he knew they weren’t a close couple, but Stiles wanted to believe that they were at least in love with each other. When he hears them arguing, it seems as if it's one more bubble burst in Stiles’s life. They’re quiet about it, at least cognizant enough to remember that there are sleeping children in the house. Stiles winces as the voices get sharper, but not louder, words too quiet for him to make out. The fights aren’t long. They’re heated and explosive in the way he and Scott argue after one of them beats the other in Guitar Hero. But unlike the quick resolution he and Scott come to over games, the McCalls’s fights continue.

 

He doesn’t feel scared, though. This is his safe place for now, despite the arguments and the secrets. He basks in his haven away from his home and away from the memories until the evening  _ it _ truly starts. 

 

It’s a long while after Stiles has heard the fighting, it’s now almost as routine as the rest of the evening. He had listened to Melissa get out of the shower, peek into Scott’s room, and slip away to her room. It’s quiet and Stiles is tricked by the silence, his eyes open as he tries to focus on the ceiling to bore him into sleep. He feels sleep taking him under, the warmth of the bed and the regularity of it all is calming him into sleep. A noise in the hallway, though, startles him to full alertness again. 

 

He freezes when he sees a shadow in the doorway, just out of the corner of his eye. He closes his eyes slowly, hoping that whoever is there hasn’t seen them open. He swallows shallowly when he hears bare feet on the hardwood floor. 

 

“Stiles? You awake?”

 

Whispers in the dark and closer than he expected. Rafe’s breath is sickly sweet with liquor; his footsteps are clunky, uneven. Stiles’s stomach clenches. It feels like betrayal to smell alcohol here, side pressed against Scott, far away from his own father’s drunkenness. He’s not once smelled it here in this house. He’s used to the stench in his own kitchen, on soiled police paperwork, lingering around his grieving father. But this is new and disturbing - it’s so out of place that he feels the prick of sweat under his arms that usually appears when he’s scared. He bites at his tongue to keep from making noise.

 

Rafe stands over him in the darkness for long moments, breathing stench into Stiles’s space. His gaze feels like a heavy blanket on top of Stiles. “Beautiful boy,” he sighs, voice slurred just enough. Stiles fights to stay still, to fake sleeping. It becomes more difficult when he hears the creak of the floorboard beside the bed and the sound of Rafe’s breathing is louder, tickling his ear with each exhalation. 

 

Rafe inhales deeply; makes a strangled sound. He reaches out a hand and ghosts it over Stiles’s fingers. Not quite touching, but definitely hovering close enough to stir the fine hairs on the back of his hand. The sensation sends prickles up Stiles’s spine and he bites into his tongue harder against the flush of adrenaline inside him. He tastes blood. He can feel Rafe’s eyes on his face now, like a physical touch. He braces for whatever’s coming next, stomach churning.

 

That’s when Scott makes a noise in his own slumber and flops over in the bed, arm crashing down onto Stiles’s chest with a heavy thump. Stiles jumps, eyes flying open. He watches Rafe scuttle backwards into the darkness with a hand over his heart and his mouth open in surprise. He sees the moment when the older man notices he’s awake. He clamps his own lips shut tightly as the bile creeps into this throat at the look in Rafe’s eyes. Amused, yet sort of gentle? 

“I can make you some warm milk if you’re having trouble sleeping, Stiles,” Rafe whispers hoarsely, smiling. There’s a sound in the hallway, though, and Rafe’s attention is drawn away. “Sleep,” he murmurs.

 

Stiles swallows roughly and Rafe is gone.

 

~*~

 

In the morning, he thinks he dreamed it.  _ Must _ have dreamed it. 

 

Except Scott’s still snuggled next to him, arm over his chest, protective. His mouth still tastes like vomit and copper, his tongue is sore at the tip, and his eyes are scratchy like sandpaper. He lays in bed with his best friend and tries not to cry. He’s unsuccessful. Scott's a sound sleeper, though, so he's saved the interrogation about the tears until he finally gets up.

 

Melissa is worried when he pads into the kitchen for breakfast. She looks at him deeply, concern etched on her face, and squeezes him to her breast tightly. “Have a bad dream again?”

 

Stiles doesn’t know what to say.  _ Was _ it a dream? He’s far too confused and sick feeling to accept anything else, so he nods and accepts the hug, worming his way into her softness and cries more. She almost smells like his mother. 

 

“Everything okay?”

 

Stiles jerks farther into Melissa’s arms at the sound of Rafe’s voice behind him. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter. Melissa presses her cheek to his head and uses one hand to shoo her husband away. 

 

“He’s fine. Just a bad dream, I think.”

 

“Another one?” Rafe asks, concerned. He steps closer to the two of them and places a hand gently on Stiles’s shoulder, squeezing. “You know you can always come tell me when you have one of those. I’m an expert at getting rid of the monsters in the dark.” His eyebrows wiggle comically, but Stiles hugs Melissa tighter. 

 

Melissa frowns. “He’s too old to be scared of monsters, Rafe.” She pulls away a bit to look down at Stiles’s face. “I know it’s been a rough couple of months, Stiles. But he’s right - you can always come find one of us if you’ve had a bad dream.” Her thumbs slide across his cheekbones softly before she looks over at her husband. “Nothing a little breakfast can’t help, right? Could you start it, Rafe?”

 

Rafe groans, rubbing at his forehead. “I’m gonna skip breakfast today. I’ve got paperwork to finish up on the O’Hara case and my stomach’s not right this morning. I’m in need of a coffee and an aspirin, though.” 

 

Melissa lets out an irritated puff of air. “Fine. Is Scott up?”

 

“I don’t know. Go check.” He sounds irritated and indignant, far different from how he usually sounds in the daytime. 

 

Stiles shudders as Melissa’s spine stiffens, but she’s not going to argue with Rafe in front of him, he knows. She sighs and extracts herself from Stiles slowly. “Want to start whipping up some pancake batter, Stiles? You know where everything’s at. I’ll go get Scott.”

 

Stiles wraps his arms around himself as she leaves the room, a chill settling over the parts of his body that were warmed in her embrace. Rafe’s watching him from the coffee pot, he can  _ feel _ it, but Stiles refuses to turn around. Instead, he walks to the cupboard and digs out the heavy mixing bowl for pancakes. As he sets it down on the counter, he’s suddenly aware of Rafe’s body directly behind him. Stiles coughs as the overpowering scent of the older man’s cologne settles around him.

 

“Are you okay, Stiles?”

 

“I-I’m fine.”

 

“I meant what I said - about the dreams. I can help, if you’ll let me.”

 

He nods, trying not to scream. “I’m okay. Just”

 

Rafe makes a noise of agreement. Then, he ruffles Stiles’s hair as normal, fingers mussing his hair more. They drag down and catch in the neck of his oversized sleep shirt. Stiles jumps at the cold chill it causes. The details of the night before slam back into focus and his stomach aches. He’s pissed that he’s feeling so jittery and uncomfortable in this space that was his haven. He wants to scream and yell, but he also doesn’t know why Rafe hasn’t acted like he remembers what happened the night before. He turns around abruptly, knocking Rafe’s hand off of him, looking straight up at his face. His eyes narrow, challenging. 

 

“Don’t-”

 

“Sorry, buddy,” Rafe says, almost conversationally. He smiles as if nothing is amiss, as if he hadn’t been watching Stiles sleep last night, touching him. “Guess that’s a ticklish spot, huh?”

 

Stiles feels sick, dirty. He shoulders away from the older man, head down, and slinks into the hallway bathroom. He scrambles to press the button lock behind him. He feels the panic creep in as he hears Melissa return to the kitchen and Scott’s worried voice ask his father where Stiles is.

 

“I’m in the bathroom,” he calls. His voice sounds high, tight. “I’ll be right out.” He splashes water over his face to calm himself, but it doesn’t work the way it should. His teeth chatter and his head pounds. He tries to remember what Melissa has told him about calming his body - how to draw in deep breaths and focus on that - but it’s difficult in the moment. Instead, he hears himself sucking air in between his teeth noisily and panting when his vision gets spotty.

 

He doesn’t stop shaking until he hears Rafe’s car drive away. He can’t get himself to leave the bathroom until he's under control, breaths finally slowing so he can feel the relief of oxygen in his lungs. 

 

Melissa frowns when he enters the kitchen, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling alright, sweetie? You look a little pale.”

 

“Fine.” He's shocked at how calm his voice sounds.

 

“Okay, well take it easy today.” She hugs him with one arm over his shoulders and it's good. He allows her to hand him a plate of pancakes and a glass of juice and he sits down at the table with Scott like it's any other Sunday morning.

 

He could tell them. He could ask for help sorting out this fear. But he sees Scott grinning at him and Melissa rushing around to get ready for her shift and he thinks,  _ Later. Later will be better. _

 

Except it's not. It's worse.


	2. Chapter 2

“Can Scott stay over tonight?”

 

Melissa frowns at his reflection in her mirror. She's sitting at the vanity in the corner of her room, pinning back wayward curls in preparation for work. She already looks tired. “Your dad’s on duty tonight.”

 

Stiles feels his cheeks go red. “I know. I don't want to be by myself.”

 

“You're always welcome here, Stiles. You know that. I have a late shift, but Rafe should be-”

 

“I just really miss my bed, Mrs. McCall.”

 

Her face softens. “Oh, honey. I know this is hard. I can't imagine. But I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you two boys being alone in your house overnight. You're only 11.”

 

Stiles feels the burn of tears behind his eyes and he blinks to keep them at bay. “Please? I need-”

 

“What's wrong, kiddo?” Rafe steps into the bedroom, removing his cufflinks as he walks. He tosses his blazer over the back of the vanity chair, along with his tie. He presses a kiss to Melissa’s temple. “I thought we were gonna rent some movies and have a guy's night?”

 

Stiles looks down at his sneakers. “I just want to go home, Mr. McCall.”

 

Then Rafe is crossing the bedroom and crouching down so they're face to face. He smiles at Stiles. “Look, I'm all for you going home. I get that. I do. But there are bad people in this world, Stiles, and I'm not sure leaving you two boys alone in the sheriff’s house overnight is a good idea. Beacon Hills isn't a large town, you know. I can't be sure that any of your dad’s old cases won’t come looking for him in the middle of the night.”

 

“We've never had any problems before,” Stiles lies. He replays tense nights when his father went to the door with his gun drawn. He shivers when he thinks that he’d rather deal with a dozen ex-cons at his door than stay here with Rafe again.

 

Rafe leans closer and brushes a hand over his shoulder. “That doesn't mean tonight's not the night something  _ does _ happen. I also don't know if all your father's weapons and, uh, other supplies,” he casts a glance at Melissa, who turns away, “are properly secured. I can check on that tomorrow, but for tonight, it's best you just stay here. Besides, we’re gonna have a blast!”

 

Stiles backs up, out into the hallway. The pressure in his lungs eases slightly, out of Rafael’s reach. He can hear Scott in his room just down the hall, music playing at a loud enough level for him to be oblivious to the goings on. He wishes Scott was beside him now - a buffer between him and his dad. “You don't trust us?”

 

Something flares in Rafe’s eyes, something dangerous. “I trust  _ you _ , Stiles. I trust Scott, too. But as a parent and as an agent of the federal government, I have to insist that your safety is number one priority.” His voice is firm. He rests on his knees, but doesn't move forward. 

 

Melissa comes into the hallway, though, and wraps an arm around Stiles’s shoulders. “I agree. I love both of you boys and need to know you're both safe. Especially with Scott’s asthma. I know we just refilled his inhaler, but-”

 

Stiles nods. He slides out from under Melissa’s embrace and sniffs once, still fighting the rising panic. “Can I go get my pillow, then? I forgot it and I can't sleep without it.”

 

“Of course.” Melissa checks her watch. “Shoot, I'm going to be late. Rafe, can you-”

 

“On it.” Rafe grins broadly, clapping his hands together and standing up. “Scott! We’re going to grab Stiles’s pillow and some movies. Get out here!” Rafe steps into Stiles’s space again, once Melissa has rushed down the stairs and out the door. He squeezes Stiles’s shoulder just on the side of too tight. “We’ll have fun, buddy. I promise.”

 

~*~

It would be fun  _ if _ Stiles could relax. He’s seated on the couch next to Scott, sharing a bowl of popcorn, legs stretched out to rest on the coffee table. They’re watching The Bourne Supremacy, which Stiles would have normally been totally into, but he can’t concentrate. He’s constantly feeling Rafe’s stare from his armchair three feet away. It affects his stomach, too, and more than once, Scott has questioned why he’s not eating more popcorn. 

 

“Must’ve drank too much Pepsi,” he says finally, rubbing at his stomach absently. 

 

Scott just laughs and pokes him in the side. Stiles winces. “Dude, too much caffeine makes you jittery.” 

 

“That’s the Adderall,” Stiles corrects. 

 

“Your stomach ache could be the Adderall, too,” Rafe interjects. “Do you want some Pepto or-”

 

“I’m fine.” 

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah.” Stiles shifts uncomfortably on the couch again, this time swinging his legs down to the floor. “I think I’ll just run to the bathroom.”

 

“Better out than in,” Scott chirps. 

 

He’s in the bathroom, taking deep breaths to calm his stomach, for only a minute before he hears someone outside the door. “Stiles?”

 

He tucks his face into the neck of his hoodie and takes a few breaths. The air inside is warm and smells like his mother’s favorite fabric softener. His eyes tingle with tears. “Yeah?”

 

“You okay?” It’s Rafe. His voice is muffled through the door, but low and different somehow. “If you need anything-” The doorknob twists. Luckily, he remembered to lock the door behind him. 

 

“No!” Stiles says quickly, flushing the toilet and starting the water in the sink. His heart is beating rapidly and his throat feels tight. “I’ll be right out.”

 

Scott’s voice calls from the living room, something indiscernible, and Stiles sighs in relief as he hears Rafe walk away from the bathroom door. He washes his hands and ducks out into the hallway, feeling strangely guilty at sneaking away. He’s halfway up the stairs before a hand touches his arm. He flails, nearly falling down.

 

Scott looks up at Stiles, confused and alarmed, snatching his hand back quickly. “You okay, dude? We still have about twenty minutes left of the movie.”

 

“Yeah. I’m just really tired. Think we could just head to bed and finish it tomorrow morning?”

 

Scott’s forehead wrinkles, but he smiles up at him anyway. “Sure. Let me just get the living room picked up. Dad gets pissed when we leave it a mess.”

 

Then Scott’s trotting away and Stiles is left on the dim staircase. He climbs the rest of the stairs two at a time, now feeling as though someone is following him. Flopping down on the bed, he drags his pillow up to his face and inhales deeply, smelling the familiar and comforting scent of his own room, of his own bed. His heart aches to be there instead of here.

 

He’s thinking about home when the hand settles on the small of his back. He twists his neck to snark at Scott for the intimate touch and feels his chest constrict as he sees Rafe staring down at him. “What-”

 

“You’re sure you’re okay, Stiles?”

 

Stiles turns on the bed, away from the older man’s touch, and tumbles off the side onto the floor. His elbow cracks painfully. He hisses in pain.

 

Rafe is next to him in an instant, gripping his wrist and investigating the injured limb. “Careful,” he says quietly, “I was just checking on you.”

 

Stiles snatches his arm away. “I’m fine. I told you - I’m fine.” He scrambles to stand up, stockinged feet slipping on hardwood. Rafe puts a hand on his waist to steady him and Stiles squawks. “Just leave me alone.” 

 

It’s loud enough that Rafe looks over his shoulder towards the door, then squints at him, fingers pressing into his waist more firmly. When he speaks, his voice is calm and louder than before. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. Do you need ice for your arm?” 

 

“No.”

 

“At least let me see if it’s swelling.” He traces a finger down Stiles’s arm, shoulder to elbow. It makes Stiles shiver and back away. His back stops against the wall, crushing a collage of photographs that’s tacked there.

 

Stiles cradles his elbow to his chest protectively. “It’s fine. Just a bruise.” He can hear Scott’s footsteps on the stairs. “You-you scared me.”

 

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Rafe says soothingly. He leans in a fraction of an inch and inhales lightly, eyes closing. Then, he stands up straight, backing up a bit. His eyes flit to the doorway again. “You are pretty jumpy tonight, though. Might want to lay off the sugar and caffeine.”

 

“What was that sound?” Scott asks, coming around the corner and into his room. 

 

“I fell off the bed.”

 

Scott laughs. “You’re so clumsy sometimes.” 

 

“Yeah. Clumsy.”  

 

~*~

It’s been a long, painfully restless night waiting to see what will happen -  _ if _ anything will happen. Scott is snoring lightly beside him, but he can’t take his normal comfort in that. Not even the lingering scent of his home on the pillowcase is allowing him to sleep. His mind flicks between all the interactions with Rafael- over and over on loop. 

 

He thinks briefly of what would happen if he were to confront the older man, then dismisses it. Rafe’s tall - over six feet - and Stiles still only stands to the man’s chest in height, not to mention probably easily fifty pounds lighter. He couldn’t tell Scott - he can’t lose his best friend over something that may or may not be anything. He thinks about talking to Melissa, but he immediately thinks of all the fights she is already having with Rafe. He’d hate to add to the tension between them. He also ponders telling his father, but he’s not got solid evidence of anything awry. Hell, Stiles isn’t even completely sure that Rafe coming into the bedroom that evening wasn’t just side effects from drinking or that Rafe even remembers that anything happened. He tosses and turns, wishing that everything was different. Silent tears track down his cheeks as he yearns for his parents.

 

It’s nearly three in the morning when he hears the creak of the floorboards in the hallway. Stiles feels his body instantly tense all over. He clenches his eyes shut tight because he already knows who’s in the hallway, who’s coming closer to the bedroom. 

 

Rafe moves quickly and nearly silently, but Stiles can still sense the weight of another person in the darkness. He figures it must be from Rafe’s work at the agency that allows him to sneak so well. That thought swells and expands in his brain. He’s so preoccupied with the thought that he jolts in surprise when he realizes he can feel (and  _ smell _ ) the whiskey breath against the side of his face. His eyes snap open.

 

“Shhhhh,” Rafe whispers. “You were having a bad dream.”

 

Scott murmurs something beside him, adjusting and relaxing once more into the mattress. Stiles feels a cold chill run through his body. 

“I-”

 

“You were making a lot of noise in here, Stiles,” Rafe continues. He’s watching Scott now. “I came to check on you both.” He lays his hand flat against Stiles’s chest and lets out a long, slow breath. “Your heart is racing.”

 

Stiles fights the urge to slap the older man’s hand away. Instead, he squirms closer to Scott. Rafe’s hand slides a little to the right, but doesn’t fall away. “You scared me.”

 

“ _ I _ scared you?” Rafe’s eyes are twinkling with amusement in the dim light coming in from the window. “I was just checking to make sure you were alright.” He looks at his son again, then back to Stiles. “We wouldn’t want you to wake Scott, now, would we?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“You seem to be saying that alot lately, but it’s not true is it?” Rafe slides his hand across the expanse of Stiles’s chest, making sure to rub softly over one nipple. He breathes out loudly when Stiles whimpers. He frowns when Stiles pushes his hand away. “Do you need something to help you calm down? Get back to sleep? I can make you some warm milk.”

 

Stiles gapes at him. “No. I’m fine.” He flips over in the bed, back to Rafe, and hugs his pillow tightly. He feels pressure behind his eyes, sees spots. He struggles to keep his breathing somewhat even. “It was just a bad dream. You can go back to bed now,” he whispers. 

 

Rafe stands there a few minutes more, whiskey breath sour and thick in the room. “Good night, Stiles,” he says as he backs out of the room. 

 

Stiles can feel his eyes on his body long after he’s gone, though. He weeps quietly into his pillow.

 

~*~

 

“You look like crap, dude,” Scott comments over their bowls of Lucky Charms cereal. 

 

Melissa frowns. “Rafe said you had a bad dream again last night?”

 

Stiles drops his spoon into his bowl with a clank. “Yeah. I’m fine, though.” He gets up and pours the half-eaten cereal down the sink. “I’m gonna go get my bag.” He jogs up the stairs, but stops at the top when he hears Rafe’s voice in the kitchen. 

 

“I don’t know how you feel about it, Melissa, but I was thinking these two boys are much too old to be sharing that twin-sized bed at night. Not to mention, they’re growing. They need their own space.”

 

Melissa hums. “I don’t really see the problem with-”

 

“We have a perfectly good pull-out sofa down here. Or we could get an air mattress.”

 

“It really is pretty crowded, Mom,” Scott pipes up. “I’m sure Stiles wouldn’t mind having his own place to crash without having to wake up with his head in my armpit anymore.”

 

“I don’t mind,” Stiles says quickly. He feels his face redden with embarrassment as all three turn to look at him. “I mean, it’s not like you stink, dude,” he tries to joke.

 

Melissa snorts. “Oh, honey, you’ve become nose blind.”

 

“Or maybe I’ve found the perfect deodorant,” Scott counters, smiling. 

 

“Definitely not,” Melissa laughs. “But I think maybe you’ll have fewer nightmares if you can stretch out. You know, get some space and stop worrying about squishing Scott.”

 

“I don’t-”

 

“Not consciously, Stiles. I know that. But maybe part of the reason you aren’t sleeping well is because you’re not used to trying to squeeze into a tiny bed with another human. I think it might be good for you to try it out at least.”

 

“It’s settled then,” Rafe says, clapping his hands together once. “I’ll get stuff together after work for the sofa bed.”

 

Stiles shudders and slips away to Scott’s bedroom. His ribs feel tight, his hands sweaty. He shakes himself and gathers his backpack and tennis shoes from the floor. He’s already formulating a way to stay home this evening.

 

~*~   


“Sorry, kiddo,” the sheriff says when Stiles comes in after school with Scott. “I’ve got to be out again tonight. This damn Hale case. If I could just get some concrete evidence-”

 

“That’s okay, Mr. Stilinski,” Scott pipes up, face falling effortlessly into his patented crooked-jaw grin. “Stiles can stay with us again. Dad says he’s making up the sofa bed so we’re not squished in my room anymore.”

 

The sheriff winces. “I hope he’s not intruding…”

 

“Nah, he’s like the brother I never had.” Scott slings an arm across Stiles’s shoulders. 

 

“That’s nice.” The sheriff crosses the living room in his uniform and buckles his handgun into the holster. “If you want, I bought some groceries this afternoon thinking I’d be home tonight - feel free to take some of them over to your house. At least someone will eat them before they spoil.” 

 

Stiles ducks out from under Scott’s arm. “I’ll be fine here, you know. Lock up nice and tight?”

 

“I’d rather you stay with Scott, son. Knowing our luck lately, the night you stay home alone is the night the wiring decides to go.” 

 

Stiles’s eyes start to fill with tears, so he grabs at his father and holds on tightly, face pressed into his chest. He takes a deep breath to keep the panic at bay. He’s not sure how he’s going to be able to endure that house - Rafe - again. His father’s arms wrap around him and he’s instantly five years old again, being comforted after falling off his bike or after his Little League team lost their first game. “I miss you,” he says quietly.

 

“I miss you, too, kid,” the sheriff says. He bends down just a bit so he can press a kiss to his hair, his own eyes becoming wet with emotion. “Things will die down soon and I’ll be home again. I’m on the best lead of my career here. And you’re safe with the McCalls.”

 

Stiles swallows against the lump in his throat. “Yeah.” He takes another deep breath before backing up, swiping at his eyes angrily. “I’ll just go get some stuff.”

 

Scott’s got his hands shoved in his pockets and his face turned to look at the family photos on the wall, tips of his ears red. The sheriff slaps a hand down on Scott’s back and smiles, dabbing the back of his hand to his own eyes. “Let’s go pick out some food while Stiles gets his stuff in order.” They disappear into the kitchen.

 

Stiles has never felt so alone in his own house - not even when he was helping his father cope those first few weeks after Claudia died. “I wish you were here, Mom,” he whispers to her smiling face in their favorite photograph.    
  


~*~

 

“Your turn, dude,” Scott says, flopping down on the bed in his pajama pants and Def Leppard shirt. His hair is still wet from the shower. He reaches over to boot up his computer. “I’ll get stuff set up and we can do some multiplayer before bed, yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles responds woodenly. He picks up his small pile of toiletries and one of Mrs. McCall’s pink fluffy towels to head to the bathroom. 

 

The bathroom is warm and damp with steam when he enters it. He turns on the shower, gets undressed, and steps inside, shutting the glass door behind him. He sighs as the warm water hits his shoulders and back and he lathers his hair and body quickly. Someone taps on the door and he jumps.

 

“I’m almost done,” he calls, shampoo sliding down into one of his eyes. “Shit,” he hisses as it burns. He shoves his face under the spray.

 

He hears the door open and close. “Scott?” He strains his ears when there’s no answer. He rubs at his eye furiously, trying to get the soap out faster. “Dude, I’m almost done. I got shampoo in my eye - just a second.”

 

His vision clears and he turns, nearly screaming as he sees Rafe’s figure in the wavy texture of the shower door. He scuttles backwards. His body folds in on itself as he hits a soapy spot and slips. He topples to the floor with a thump, gasping for air. “Mr. McCall?”

 

“Are you okay, Stiles?” Rafe asks, moving to open the door. 

 

“Don’t!” Stiles yells out. “I’m-I’m fine!”

 

The door opens again and Scott comes rushing in. “Stiles, are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine. I slipped.”

 

“Dude,” Scott says, turning away from Stiles. His face is contorted in confusion as he looks at his father. “What-why are you in here?”

 

Rafe’s smile falls away instantly and he backs up, looking away. “I was actually coming in to make sure Stiles had a towel,” he explains. “I wasn’t sure I’d seen you grab one.” He cocks his head to the side as he sees the pink fluff on the toilet near the shower. “I see you’ve got that covered, though.” 

 

“You could have just left one outside the door,” Scott says. He shakes his head. “But you’re okay, Stiles?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

Both Scott and Rafe head for the door, but Rafe looks over his shoulder once, before leaving. His smile is sinister. He bites his lip as he closes the door behind him. 

 

Stiles retches as quietly as he can when the door closes, but nothing comes up. He stays on the floor of the shower for another ten minutes before Scott knocks again. By then, the water’s cold.

 

~*~

 

He keeps pushing Scott into “just another game” for hours. Rafe’s come into the room a half a dozen times, telling them to turn it off and get some sleep, but Stiles is resisting. He’s petrified of being alone, away from Scott for a length of time in this house. If nothing else, he hopes he can pass out from exhaustion on Scott’s floor and just be left alone until morning. 

 

As it happens, Scott passes out first, face-down on his bed and hands still gripping the controller. Stiles hardly notices until Scott’s character stalls and gets cut down in the battle quickly. He sighs. Sprawling out on the floppy bean bag chair he’s been sitting in, he relaxes and finally lets himself start to doze. 

 

“Stiles…”

 

He blinks up at Melissa, who’s whispering in his ear. She smiling down at him fondly and holding his controller in her hand. It’s dark in the room, but Stiles can see the beginnings of dawn behind her in the window. “What time is it?” he yawns.

 

“Five. You two must have had a long night of it, huh?” She puts down the controller and helps him up off the bean bag. His body screams from the position he’d slept in. “You want to go stretch out on the sofa? Rafe made it up special for you.”

 

Stiles’s eyes fly open and he’s suddenly completely awake. “No!” He blushes when she appears startled. “I mean, no thanks, Mrs. McCall. I’m good.”

 

“Want me to run you home? You’re dad’s probably back by now.”

 

“Yes, please.” He casts a glance at Scott, who’s still snoring into his mattress. 

 

“I’ll tell him you went home. He’ll understand,” Melissa says comfortingly. She pats his hand softly and smiles. 

 

She’s so much like his mother in this moment that he hesitates getting up. His eyes prick with tears. He needs help - a parent’s help - and she’s the closest he has to that for now. He moves in and hugs her waist tightly. She gasps in surprise, then hugs him back. He clears his throat, face still pressed to her stomach. “Mrs. McCall?”

 

“Uh-huh?”

 

“I...I like staying here and all, but I’m not comfortable with-” He swallows against the lump in his throat. “I’m just…”

 

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” She runs a hand through his hair and forces his face upwards. “You can talk to me, you know?”

 

“I-I know. It’s just...last night, when I was in the shower, Mr. McCall came in and it made me really uncomfortable.”

 

“Oh!” Her face is shock and concern. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry! He probably didn’t even realize...it’s just you two boys are growing up so fast and-”

 

“It’s not just that,” Stiles says, hiccupping with trying to keep the tears at bay. It’s now or never. “He keeps  _ watching _ me sleep.”

 

Melissa frowns. “He what?”

 

Stiles shakes his head and shoves his face back into her body to hide. “Never mind.”

 

“Oh, no...honey, let me…,” she pulls back and looks him over head to toe, as if assessing him with her nurse eyes. She touches the dark smudge under one eye. “We’re worried about you, Stiles. You’re not sleeping well and-”

 

Stiles clenches his teeth and eyes shut tight. He releases his hold on Melissa and backs up, nearly tripping over the bean bag. “You’re right,” he whispers. “He was just checking on me. I just need some sleep.” He starts towards the bathroom, knocking his knee into the bedpost. 

 

Scott sits up with a start. “Wassup?”

 

“Stiles?”

 

Stiles ignores them both, shutting himself into the bathroom and pressing the lock. He slides to the floor, heart starting to race. He feels betrayed, lost, and alone. He was sure Melissa would believe him, or at least  _ listen _ . It breaks his heart to know she’s shutting him down before she even hears him out. He turns on the shower just to block out the sound of Melissa’s concerned voice at the door and Scott’s incessant knocking. He barely feels himself respond with an “I’m fine,” before allowing the darkness to descend over his vision.

 

Soon, all the noise stops. It’s just Stiles and his shallow breathing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS HAS SOME REALLY CREEPY RAFE STUFF. Please heed the warnings - he doesn't touch Stiles, but this is the epitome of the abuse here, folks. Trigger warnings apply.

The sound of the door lock being popped and his father’s voice brings Stiles back from wherever he went. He feels his lungs straining and his chest burning, eyes dry from not blinking and hands sore from where his nails had made dents in his palms. “Dad?” he asks, quietly. 

 

The shower is still running, but the bathroom isn’t steamy. It’s cold. John reaches over and turns it off. His eyes are sheriff sharp, but his face is weary. He looks likes he’s been up for weeks and Stiles feels a rush of shame go through him. He looks like he did when things got bad with Claudia… Stiles squeezes his eyes closed and wishes his thoughts away. 

 

“Oh, Stiles,” John says, pulling him into a strong hug. “Are you okay? You scared us a bit.”

 

“I’m fine,” Stiles responds. His voice sounds gritty, like he’d swallowed sandpaper. He tries to clear it. It hurts and he winces. 

 

John looks over his shoulder at Melissa, who frowns. “Stiles, you’ve been in here for an hour.” She leans forward and presses a cool hand to his forehead. “No fever, but I’d feel a lot better if you’d run over to the clinic and get checked out. Actually, I wanted to talk to your father about having you talk to a psych-”

 

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” Stiles insists. “I just want to go home.”

 

“Let’s get you home, then.” John pulls his son up and drapes an arm over his shoulders. 

 

Stiles feels small beside him, something he hasn’t felt in a long time, and the relief floods his body. He leans into his father heavily.

 

Scott is standing awkwardly in his bedroom, holding out Stiles’s backpack, pillow, and overnight bag. “I’ll see you later?”

 

Stiles nods. He lets his father take his things from Scott and lead him out to the cruiser. They don’t even make it to the end of the block before he’s fast asleep.

 

~*~

 

When Stiles wakes up next, he’s in his own bed and the light coming through his window is pink and dim. His eyes feel heavy, his lids too thick to move much. His mouth feels cottony. His stomach rumbles in hunger for the first time in days. He sighs with the comfort of it all and snuggles deeper into his covers. 

 

The movement causes his bladder to scream out for him to relieve it and he fights the urge until he can’t any longer. He pads to the bathroom on autopilot. Once he’s finished, he rinses his mouth and washes his face with cool water. He looks at himself in the mirror. 

 

What he sees scares him. Dark circles ring his puffy eyes. The small moles that dot his face and neck are a stark contrast to the paleness of his skin. His lips are noticeably dry. 

 

“Stiles? You up?” John comes into the bathroom behind him. He’s dressed in his uniform, crisp and clean, but he still looks beyond exhausted. He’s holding a plate of Pizza Rolls. “I know it’s not breakfast, but you slept for close to twelve hours. Are you feeling better?”

 

“Yeah.” Stiles takes the plate from John. “I must’ve been really tired.” He takes a bite of food, hissing when the molten insides touch his tongue. Then, he grins. “These are the best breakfast.”

 

John smiles. “Don’t get used to it.” He ruffles Stiles’s hair, frowning when his son flinches. “Got a headache?”

 

“A little one,” Stiles lies. “Can I watch TV?”

 

“Of course. Come down and I’ll get you settled on the sofa.”

 

He gets Stiles set up on the couch, a bottle of Gatorade on the side table, pillows stacked on the arm, and thick blanket on his lap. Then, he glances at his watch. “I hate to do this-”

 

“Work?”

 

“Sorry, buddy. The fire chief had some things he wanted me to look at about this Hale fire,” he explains. “I was waiting until you got up to see that you were okay before I left, but it’s late. I won’t be gone long.”

 

“It’s okay, Dad. I understand.” Stiles flips through the channels to distract himself from the pain in his chest.

 

“I can have Melissa come check on you if you want. Or Rafe?”

 

“No!” 

 

John startles. “But-”

 

“I feel fine, Dad. I’m almost twelve. I’ve got this.”

 

“If you’re sure…”

 

“Go. Save some people. I have Scott’s number if I need anything.”

 

John kisses the top of his head before heading out, locking the door behind him. Stiles tries to focus on the black and white movie playing on the television and not on the fact that he’s alone again.

 

~*~

 

He passes out again and wakes up to the sound of the telephone ringing. He fumbles to the kitchen to answer it. 

 

“Hello?”

 

“Stiles?”

 

“Mrs. McCall?”

 

“Is your dad there, honey?”

 

Stiles looks around at the darkened house, the only light coming from the television in the living room. “I don’t think so.”

 

Melissa huffs into the phone. “Are you feeling better?”

 

“A little sleepy, but better. What time is it?”

 

“Oh,” she says, distracted. “I’m sorry. I forgot. It’s late. I’m just about to head over to the hospital for my shift. Do you want to come stay with Scott until your dad gets back?”

 

“No. I’m fine. Dad said he wouldn’t be gone long.”

 

“I’d feel better knowing you weren’t alone when you’re feeling-.”

 

“I’m okay. I promise. I’m just gonna go back to bed. Door’s locked, oven’s off.”

 

Melissa sighs. “I’ll call back to make sure your dad’s home soon, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Good night, Stiles.”

 

“Good night, Mrs. McCall.”

 

He hangs up the phone, heads in to turn off the television, and then makes his way back up to his bedroom. He really is exhausted and his dad would be home soon. He promised….

 

~*~

 

The next time Stiles wakes, there’s a loud pounding on the door downstairs and it’s pitch black around him. He shrivels in his bed, trying to hide under his covers. His entire body aches from too much sleep. His heart pounds in his chest with fear. He realizes bleakly that his father is definitely not home. The pounding continues and then the phone rings.

 

Stiles is glad that his father allows him to have his own phone in his room - a gaudy, retro-style phone that has transparent casing and lets him see all the working parts inside - because he’s able to answer it without leaving the safety of his bed. “Hello?”

 

“Stiles?”

 

“Mrs. McCall? There’s….there’s someone at the door.”

 

“That’s Rafe. I tried to call you before, but you didn’t answer.”

 

“I was sleeping.” The fear is stronger now, knowing who was on the other side of the front door. “My dad-”

 

“Your dad’s here at the hospital-”

 

“Is he okay?”

 

“He’s fine. He was working a case and ran by to question a witness here. He said to have you go with Rafael - he’d be here with the coroner for a bit, too. Something else came up.”

 

“He’s not coming home?”

 

The pounding on the door has stopped and Stiles looks frantically at the hallway as he realizes that the front door has opened and Rafe’s voice is calling to him. He must make a worried noise because Melissa’s voice comes back to him, alarmed. 

 

“Sweetie?”

 

“He’s in the house,” Stiles whispers, shaking. 

 

“Rafe must have found the key. That’s good.” Her voice is muffled as if she’s covering the handset. She’s talking to someone else, distracted. “Stiles, go with Rafe. I’ll be home in a couple hours.” 

 

“Mrs. McCall, I’ll be okay here. I promise-”

 

“I’ve got to go, dear. Rafe will make sure you’re safe and I’ll see you soon.” The phone disconnects.

 

“Stiles?”

 

Rafe is in his bedroom, dressed in soft flannel pajama pants and a light jacket - looking sleepy and comfortable, and suddenly all the Pizza Rolls and Gatorade that tasted so good earlier churn sickeningly within Stiles’s gut. He grips his covers tighter, letting the phone clatter to the floor. 

 

“Are you okay?” Rafe asks, picking up the phone and hanging it up. He looks concerned. “Melissa said your dad got tied up with a case. She sent me to pick you up.” He reaches out to touch Stiles, but Stiles flinches away. He scowls. “Your father asked that you go with me and I think it’s best that you’re not alone right now.”

 

“I’m fine here, Mr. McCall. Really.”

 

Rafe tilts his head appraisingly. “I know you  _ think  _ you’re okay, but you’re not. You look like death warmed over and you’re skittish. I think your dad needs to take a look at your medications - something’s not right.”

 

Stiles’s teeth begin to chatter. Scott comes running into his room, eyes wide. “Dude! Are you okay?”

 

“I told you to wait in the car,” Rafe says gruffly. 

 

“I got cold,” Scott whines. “Besides, I can help get Stiles ready to go.” He starts opening drawers and finding a change of clothes for Stiles, stuffing them into his backpack. 

 

“I’ll just wait in the car.” Rafe’s gone before Stiles can process what’s happening. 

 

Scott beams at him. “Sounds like we can finally finish that match on Trekken, right?”

 

~*~

 

The late hour is not Stiles’s friend. It means that Scott is hurrying upstairs to get back to sleep and Rafe is helping him convert the sofa into a bed. He’s trying to stay detached and keep his mind positive, but it’s so difficult and he can’t help feeling like there’s a ticking time bomb inside the room. He’s relieved when Rafe simply finishes throwing a spare comforter over the bed and wishes him goodnight before going upstairs. 

 

He lays in the quiet darkness of the living room for a while - just waiting for the other shoe to drop - but after about forty-five minutes, he feels himself drifting off to sleep. He shuts his eyes cautiously and is asleep within minutes.

 

~*~

 

He wakes up when he feels someone staring at him from across the room. He keeps his eyes mostly shut, but peers out from between his lashes. A tall shadow is standing at the base of the staircase, looking down at him on the sofa bed. It’s Rafe. Stiles can’t make out his face, but there’s no one else it could be. 

 

One of his arms is moving in front of him.

 

Stiles bites his tongue and clenches his eyes shut. He can hear heavy breathing and an odd rustling. He can’t….he  _ can’t _ …

 

“Rafe?”

 

Melissa’s voice is quiet from the kitchen, the back door swinging behind her as she comes in from the driveway. Stiles holds his breath. He can hear her putting down her purse, kicking off her shoes, and opening the fridge. She doesn’t seem to notice what Rafe is doing there in the dark….

 

Rafe, however, is fast. He backs into the shadows, meaning to duck back up the stairs, but Melissa is faster. She crosses the living room, cat-like silent, and sighs. 

 

“Rafe, what are you doing down here? Is Stiles okay?” 

 

“He-he’s fine. Just checking on him. I’m heading back to bed….”

 

“You know, he mentioned you checking on him the other day. He said it made him uncomfortable. That’s a strange thing for a kid to say, right?” Stiles feels Melissa’s hand come down lightly on his forehead, then fall away. “He’s been so upset lately, what with his mother and now his father…”

 

“His father needs to lay off the booze and take care of his son,” Rafe growls. 

 

“Shhhh,” Melissa shushes him. “He needs to rest and you’re going to wake him up.” Rafe makes a sound in his throat and Melissa clucks at him. “You need to take your own advice, Rafael. You preach all day about how John’s drunk all the time and yet, here you are at three in the morning with whiskey on your breath.”

 

“I’m not a drunk. There’s a difference.”

 

“Well, you certainly smell it. You realize that doesn’t help anyone when you get like this.” Stiles can hear their footsteps going away from him and he relaxes a bit. He tenses when Melissa gasps. “Are you- What were you- Oh my God…”

 

“Quiet, Melissa,” Rafael hisses. “Don’t want to wake the boys.”

 

“You….he tried to tell me why he was uncomfortable around you and I…”

 

The sound of the slap is loud and Stiles’s eyes opened of their own accord. He turns his head to see Melissa holding her cheek, her back to the wall of the staircase. 

 

“You’ll do your best to keep quiet about this, Melissa.”

 

Her eyes narrow. “No. John’s put his trust in us to keep Stiles safe and you’re here alone with him every night doing...God, I don’t even know what to-”

 

Stiles watches her stride down the stairs in the direction of the living room and he tries so hard to pretend to sleep, but he can’t get his eyes to close. She’s so upset, though, that she doesn’t even notice him. She’s halfway across the room, nearing the phone when Rafe grabs her around her waist and hauls her off the ground. 

 

“What are you doing?” he whispers harshly. 

 

“Let me  _ go _ ,” she whines. “You’re drunk, Rafe. Let me down.”

 

“I can’t right now. If I let you down, you’ll just call who? The cops? John? I always knew there was something going on between the two of you-”

 

Rafe howls as Melissa’s left foot lands in his crotch as she kicks. She’s on the ground in an instant and scrambling for the phone. Stiles slides from the sofa bed and crawls to the staircase, not looking back. His body is shaking and his vision is blurring around the edges. He pants as he tries to keep calm.

 

“Mom?” Scott’s voice is sobering from the top of the steps. “Dad?”

 

“Everything’s fine, honey,” Melissa calls out to him, voice surprisingly steady. Stiles can hear her pushing buttons on the phone as she speaks. “Just go back to bed.”

 

“I...I fell down, Scott,” Rafe adds from the floor. He sounds pained. “Your mother’s trying to call the hospital but I’m okay. I’ll be just fine.” He’s at her side now, taking the phone from her hand and pressing the disconnect button against the dispatcher’s voice. “She knows I can take a little pain.”

 

Scott starts coming down the stairs. “Are you okay? I mean, if mom thinks you need to go to the hospital-” He comes up short when he sees Stiles at the bottom of the stairs in a ball. “Stiles?” He crouches down and looks at Stiles closely, one hand on his shoulder. When he speaks next, he sounds angry. “What’s wrong with Stiles?”

 

Rafe’s stomping across the room now, phone in hand and face full of fury. “Your mother said for you to go back to bed, so you best mind her.” He reaches the end of the stairs and puts a hand on Stiles’s back. “I’ll take care of Stiles.”

 

“No!” Melissa screams, running across the room. She launches herself at Rafe’s back, all fists. 

 

Stiles can’t move. Everything around him is in slow motion. Rafe launches up from beside him and brings his hand back to hit Melissa again. Unfortunately, his arm is too long and catches Scott under the chin just so. Scott’s face morphs into shock as he’s struck. He loses his balance, one arm coming out to catch the bannister, but it’s too late. He’s falling before anyone can help him. 

 

He lands on the hardwood floor with a loud crack, eyes open but unseeing. Melissa screams again. 

 

“I didn’t….I…”

 

“Scott?”

 

Stiles can’t move. He can’t speak. He can’t scream or cry or blink. He sits, watching as the darkness rolls over his vision completely and all is quiet again.

 

~*~

 

“Stiles!” 

 

His vision comes back and he’s instantly barraged by bright lights and cold air. His father is yelling in his face. He tries to stay awake, to keep his eyes open, but it’s so difficult with all the brightness. He feels himself slipping away. He whispers to his father, “sorry,” before he’s gone again.

 

~*~

 

Melissa is crying. 

 

There’s beeping and those bright lights again. Stiles groans with the effort to come back to consciousness. His father is instantly by his side. 

 

“Stiles?”

 

“Scott?”

 

“He’s okay,” John says softly. “Just around the corner. Bump on the head from falling down the stairs. He’ll be okay.” John hugs him. “Melissa said you boys gave her quite the scare.”

 

He looks over at where he can hear Melissa’s sniffles. She looks horrified. “Scare?”

 

“The stairs,” she says. She bites her lip. “You were playing hide and seek and Scott fell down, remember?” Her eyes tell him that she hasn’t told his father the truth - that she’s scared. His heart twinges with the knowledge that she’s keeping  _ Rafael _ safe.

 

He nods. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” He winces. “Can I get some water, please?”

 

“I’ll get it,” John says to Melissa, hurrying out the door. 

 

Melissa comes and stands by his bed, reaching out to take his hand. She sighs. “Do you remember….anything? You were pretty out of it when the ambulance came. Your father- he thinks you had another panic attack because Scott fell...” She looks away quickly. “Scott doesn’t remember any of it.”

 

“Nothing?”

 

“The doctors say he might regain the memories someday, that it’s most likely only temporary amnesia. He only remembers coming to your house to pick you up.” She swallows as tears start falling again. “Stiles, I-”

 

Stiles nods his head and closes his eyes. “Can we not talk about it?”

 

“I need to tell your father…”

 

“No, please?”

 

“I’m a mandated reporter, Stiles. I can’t just let this go.”

 

“No.” Stiles pulls his hand away from hers, shifting away from her slightly. His heart is numb. “I need my dad,” he says quietly. “If you tell him, I can’t….he won’t….” He looks at her, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Do you think Scott will still be my friend if I tell him I just want to stay home?”

 

“I’m so sorry, Stiles. I didn’t want to believe...I still can’t believe it. But Rafael’s gone. I told him to leave before I got home from the hospital. If he’s not gone when I get there tonight, your dad’s going to take him to jail.  They gave him a field sobriety test when your dad noticed the smell. If he had been driving or on public property, he would have been hauled away already. I should have sent him away a long time ago.” She hugs him tightly. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’ll never doubt you again.”

 

Stiles looks forward, unblinking. 

 

~*~

 

The therapist Stiles sees is nice. She wears a lot of lipstick and too much floral perfume, but she’s kind and she takes the time to help him figure out that the stress of losing his mother is causing his panic attacks. He resolutely keeps his father’s drinking and the ordeal with Rafael a secret, though, knowing that telling would mean more questions and possibly more time away from his father. He offers her a few ideas of how lonely he feels, even when around his father, and she nods understandingly as she explains how grief can do that to a family.

 

She tweaks his Adderall just enough to allow for a low dosage of antidepressants. She sees his father for a month or two, as well, and Stiles is happier when school starts back up the next fall and there’s not a drop of liquor in the house. His father seems happier, too. There’s even some evenings where they work together in the kitchen to prepare dinner and it feels like it did before his mom died. His home is his home once again.

 

Scott stays over at Stiles’s when John is on call. He brings his PlayStation and for a while, it’s like nothing much has changed. Scott thinks it’s because Melissa is finally trusting them since they’re getting older, but Stiles knows it’s because she feels guilty. He tries not to think about it when they’re pulling out of the driveway and she looks sad. He tries not to think much about anything at all.

 

Scott sometimes talks about his father leaving. The first time it happens, he has to fake a coughing fit to hide his instant panic. 

 

“He’s just such a dick,” Scott says, body nearly shaking with anger, tips of his ears pinking up as the curse word crosses his lips. “I mean, he just left. He doesn’t even call. He didn’t even come see me in the hospital. How screwed up is that?”

 

“Does your mom know where he went?” His voice nearly gives him away.

 

“D.C., I think. To the Bureau.” Scott puts down the controller he’d been playing with and starts pacing Stiles’s room. “I mean, if he had to leave for work, that would be one thing. But I heard mom talking to a lawyer on the phone the other day and she’s filing for divorce. Divorce, Stiles. It’s like I came out of the hospital and entered the twilight zone.” 

 

“Yeah, it’s weird.”

 

“I just thought….I mean, everyone’s parents fight, right?” Scott sits down next to him, eyes earnest. “That’s normal, right?”

 

“I don’t know,” Stiles says quietly. He looks down at his hands as the thoughts of the McCalls’ fights whir through his head. “I mean, my parents didn’t really-”

 

Scott sighs and flops back on the bed. “It’s just weird is all. Mom cries sometimes. She thinks I don’t hear her.”

 

“My dad cries sometimes, too.”

 

They sit for a while in the quiet, a million miles away in their own heads.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles hasn’t heard about Rafe for years.  Not a single thing, even from Scott, who seems to have decided that his father’s a deadbeat and has given up on him.  Melissa’s finally moved past the puppy-eyed look she used to give him and he’s able to keep himself busy enough to not think about any of it.  

 

He carries on through middle school as if it didn’t happen at all.  He’s found a way to keep those memories buried deep. It helps that he discovers girls - namely Lydia Martin - and his interest is piqued by some of the jocks on the lacrosse team.  He’s not sure if it’s the athleticism that he wishes he had or the fact that his body reacts almost equally to thoughts of Lydia  _ and _ Jackson Whittemore that bothers him more.  He figures it’s what his dad mutters about hormones every time he’s washing his sheets and tries not to think about  _ that  _ either.  

 

Luckily, he’s got Scott to keep him grounded and his dad’s home enough that he can focus on keeping them both healthy.  He needs his father. He needs Scott. Without them, he’d be that scared boy back on the sofa bed, waiting to be rescued.

 

Sometimes, even though he’s able to keep himself sane during the day, there’s a nightmare.  His unconscious mind isn’t ready to give it up apparently but he’s learned to keep his night terrors to himself, too.  He’s gotten good at covering up his exhaustion on the days after he’s haunted by Rafe’s memories - cramming for tests and reading novels in their entirety for classes.  His father thinks he’s becoming scholarly, growing up. Which he is, but he’s really just becoming more resilient. 

 

The one thing he hadn’t really planned on was werewolves, though.  

 

Scott’s only slightly more observant of Stiles’s scent and heart rate once he’s been bitten, and for that Stiles is grateful.  Scott only notices a difference in Stiles, but not exactly  _ what’s _ different.  Newfound abilities don’t lend themselves to proper analysis straight out of the gate apparently.  

 

But Derek’s had a couple dozen years to practice honing his skills.  He’s the first to mention it for what it is.

 

“You feeling alright?” he asks conversationally one afternoon as the pack is discussing something that he’s not entirely paying attention to.

 

Stiles looks perplexed.  “Yeah, why?”

 

“You look like you didn’t sleep.”  Derek subtly scents the air around Stiles.  He leans in closer, voice pitched low so the others around them can’t hear him.  “And you smell like prey.”

 

“Ex _ cuse _ you,” Stiles says, offended.  He resolutely ignores the tingle of alarm and arousal Derek’s closeness gives him. “What does that even mean anyway?”

 

“When you don’t get enough sleep, you smell weaker.”  Derek shrugs. “It’s hard to explain. Just try to get some sleep.”

 

Then, he’s gone, walking away down the road as if he hadn’t been in the middle of a conversation with the rest of the group.  Scott and Allison are too busy mooning over each other, though, so Stiles is left crossing his arms defensively and scoffing. 

 

“Thanks for your concern!” he yells after Derek.  

 

“Sleep, Stiles!” he yells back.

 

It does funny things to his insides when he stops to believe that Derek might actually care about his well-being; reminds him of mornings after he’s dreamt about Derek, the terror not exactly the same when he wakes up uncomfortable and hard in his sleep pants. He brushes it off, though, dismissing it as Derek just worrying about his scent attracting wilder things to kill them.  

 

But then he notices Derek moving around him almost constantly when he’s not slept well, protective and never too far out of reach.  It’s similar to how his father was with him after.... 

 

Stiles tries not to read too much into it.  With his dad, the protective streak was over after a couple of months.  He’d surely get some good sleep before then, right?

 

~*~

He thought he had it under control.  He thought those things were behind him.  

 

He was  _ wrong _ .

 

Rafael McCall strides into Beacon Hills Memorial on a random Tuesday evening when he and Lydia are gathered to check on a patient with a suspicious bite wound and Stiles feels as if his chest is caving in.  

 

He looks helplessly at Lydia as the world around him begins to shimmer and fade.  She’s calling for him, asking if he’s alright, and he’s unable to answer her. All of the work he’s put in on keeping the fear at bay for the past four years is crumbling.  He staggers towards the men’s bathroom, tripping over his own shoes to get inside. 

 

It’s not a good move.  

 

Rafe follows him, arm crossing the doorway when Lydia tries to follow them.  “Sorry, sweetheart. This is the men’s room. I’ve got this.” He flashes his badge at her and she backs away.  He whirls on Stiles as the door closes behind him, face contorted into careful concern. He squats down. “How can I help?”

 

Stiles crawls away from him, breathing labored and vision still blurring.  “I’m okay,” he pants as he slides underneath a nearby sink. He clutches his backpack - ever present during the school year - across his chest protectively.  It feels heavy and warm - safe. 

 

“No, you’re not,” Rafe says matter-of-factly.  “What’s...let me…”

 

He reaches out to take the bag, but Stiles bats his hands away.  “Don’t touch me,” he gasps. 

 

Rafe looks surprised.  “I’m not trying to- _ Jesus _ , Stiles, you’ve got to calm down.  You’re going to pass out!”

 

“Just...get away...from me.”  Stiles wheezes and coughs. He closes his eyes at the pain each breath causes.  “I need….space.”

 

Rafe sits back on his heels.  “I can’t do that. Not when you’re hyperventilating.”  He scans the bathroom, then pulls a wad of paper towels out of the dispenser with a heavy metal clang.  The noise cuts through Stiles like a knife. He runs them under the faucet above Stiles and squeezes them out, then holds them out to Stiles.  “You need to calm your breathing.” He scoots closer, face softening. “Take a breath and count to ten. Come on, buddy.” He presses the damp paper towels against Stiles’s ankle gently.  “You’ve got to-”

 

“Stiles?”  Melissa stands above them, worried.  Lydia is behind them. She looks pissed - no one shoves Lydia Martin away from something.  Stiles feels relief flood his body and his breathing starts to slow as he watches Melissa push Rafe away from him.  

 

Rafe snatches his hand back and stands up.  “He’s having a panic attack.”

 

“We’re in a hospital,” Melissa explains angrily.  “There are literally fifty people on this floor alone that are more adept at handling hyperventilation than you are.”  She puts her arms around Stiles protectively, taking a quick assessment. “Lydia, will you go out and tell the nurse at the station that we need Dr. Gardner down here now.”

 

Lydia spins away and Rafe backs up in the same direction, hands in the air.  “Sorry. Just thought I’d help him-”

 

Melissa’s eyes narrow.  “Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re  _ implying _ …”

 

“Don’t,” Stiles whimpers.  “I want to go home.”

 

Doctor Gardner is stepping into the bathroom then and he’s whisked off to a private room to recuperate.  He begs Melissa and Lydia both not to tell Scott, but he recognizes the guilty look the older woman gives him that lets him know that Scott’s aware.  Lydia stays with him, holding his hand, and he tries not to notice when Scott comes in looking upset. Scott wants to know why Stiles had the panic attack, but Stiles just shrugs and feigns ignorance.  He keeps things light, jokes around like he’s used to. It appeases his friends enough for them to accept that he's fine and they take off to check on the rest of the pack.

 

His father strides in, concern and anxiety evident.  Stiles promises he's okay. Melissa takes him in the hallway and they whisper, casting glances at him through the window.  The doctor tells both of them that it's likely normal stress and to schedule some more therapy sessions so he can avoid these in the future.  Stiles frowns at them all, but agrees to try. 

 

His dad stays at the side of his bed until he's called away by Parrish and he squeezes Stiles just on the side of too hard before he goes.  Stiles tries not to cry as he sits in the silent room.

 

He’s asleep, though, when Derek comes in, asking about his well-being instead of diving into information about the patient two floors lower.  

 

He must subconsciously sense the werewolf in the room, though, because Derek notices the tension in the boy’s body drift away as he draws closer to the bed.  Derek stands watch until Melissa shoos him away to get his own rest.

 

~*~

 

When Stiles wakes up, he’s in his bed. It’s dark, the moon high in the sky and shining through his windows. His phone tells him it’s just after two in the morning. He looks around, unsure of how he got from the hospital to his bed.

 

He’s about to text Scott when his door creaks open.  He squints in the darkness. “Dad?” he says. His voice is raspy from sleep.  The door opens a little more, but Stiles still can’t see who’s behind it. “Hello?”

 

The shadow that falls over his floor doesn’t make sense - the light is going towards the door, not coming from behind it - but he leans forward, peering at it closely.  It’s a man’s shadow - lanky with broad shoulders and floppy hair. Stiles slithers back when he realizes who it is.  _ Rafe. _

 

“No,” he whispers.  He wants to scream, to shout so he can wake his father.  His father has to be home, right? He can’t remember…. He clutches the blankets to his chin.  “Go away.” 

 

“Beautiful boy,” Rafe coos from the shadows.  One arm has started to move steadily back and forth in front of him.  He sighs. “Come here, Stiles. It’ll be  _ fun _ , buddy.”

 

And then Stiles is screaming, throat straining and burning. He feels sweat pouring down his temples. There’s arms around him and he jerks, trying to get away from the embrace. “Get off me,” he manages as his fingernails rake down the arms holding him.  

 

“Stiles!  Wake up!”

 

It’s his father that’s holding him, not Rafe, and Stiles feels his body sag in relief as he’s finally released from his dream.  “Dad?” he squeaks. 

 

“Yeah, I’m here.  Shhhh...I’m right here.  You’re safe.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, looking down at his father’s reddened arms.  When he catches a whiff of whiskey from his father’s breath, he cries.

 

~*~

“You want to talk about it?”

 

“Talk about what?”

 

“You reek.”

 

“Wow, Scott, thanks for that.”

 

“That’s not what I…” Scott sighs and slumps against the lockers.  “I mean, it smells like you didn’t sleep well last night.”

 

“Understatement.”  He scratches the back of his head.  “You been taking werewolf lessons from Derek or something?”

 

“No, why?”

 

“It’s just-never mind.”

 

“Nightmare?”

 

Stiles nods.  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

 

“I know.  I remember you used to get them a lot when we were kids.”  Scott looks around the hallway conspiratorially. “My fucking dad’s a douche, by the way.”

 

Stiles swallows thickly and rubs his hands on his jeans.  “Yeah? Why?”

 

“I don’t know.  I just know that he came to the house yesterday, used the spare key to get in, and then he and mom had an argument.  Again.” Scott rolls his eyes. “They’re not even married anymore. He shouldn’t be able to just walk right in and start dictating what should happen in our house.”

 

“Huh.  I’ve got to get to-”

 

“Sorry, man.  I don’t mean to offload all this onto you.”  Scott clears his throat and his face eases back into a relaxed smile.  “So, the nightmare - what did you dream about? Showing up to practice in your underwear?”

 

“Nothing.”  Stiles slams his locker shut.  The metal clang sends a chill down his spine.  “But it feels like I didn’t wake up.”

 

~*~

He watches his dad pour two fingers of whiskey in a glass a few days later and his heart sinks.  It’s nearly identical to all those years ago; rumpled uniform, case files strewn around the kitchen, whiskey bottle still within reach…  Something’s different, though. 

 

He walks to the fridge and pulls out an apple, biting into it and leaning against the counter so he can watch his father work.  He’s trying for casual and hoping for the best. “Hey, daddy-o, what’s shakin’?”

 

John looks up, startled.  “Oh. When did you get home?  I didn’t hear…”

 

“I haven’t been home long.  Don’t worry - you haven’t lost your touch.”  He stares down at the pile of papers nearest where he’s standing and frowns.  “Got a lot of work to do?”

 

John grunts in reply.  He shuffles through a different pile, studies a page, then hums discontentedly.  “Are you busy?” he asks when Stiles doesn’t leave the kitchen. Stiles shakes his head.  “Then, want to help your old man figure this one out?”

 

“Is that even legal?”  When his father cocks an eyebrow at him, though, he scrambles to sit down across from him.  “I mean, yes. Yeah. Definitely. What are we looking for?”

 

John smiles.  “Just trying to see what I missed with this case last year.  All signs point to one thing, but now I’m thinking another.” He absently reaches for the tumbler beside him, mostly drained of the whiskey, and brings it to his lips.  He’s taken a sip before realizing that he’s no longer alone and he blushes. “Oh, uh….sorry, kiddo. It’s been a long day.”

 

Stiles swallows and turns away.  “No, uh, yeah. I mean, you’re an adult and-”

 

John gets up abruptly, taking the bottle and glass with him to the sink.  Both get drained into the basin before he turns around and tosses the empty bottle into the garbage can.  “It’s been years since I’ve...but that’s not important.” He crouches down near Stiles and puts a firm hand on his shoulder.  “I know that when your mother died, I wasn’t...I didn’t take care of you like I should have. And the McCalls got to see you grow and change that year.  That year was so  _ hard _ for all of us-”

 

“Dad-”

 

“No, let me say this.  I shouldn’t have buried myself in my work, in the drink, with her.  I should have stepped up and been there for you. And for that, I’m truly sorry,  Mieczyslaw.”

 

Stiles bites the end of his tongue to keep himself from tearing up, then pulls his father into a tight hug.  “You were here when I needed you. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

 

~*~

It’s later, when he’s curled in his bed with ear buds in his ears, that he truly lets the words his father said to him sink in.  He lets them wash over him like an ocean wave under the moon - a slow building crescendo that eventually crashes through his body.  He allows the tears then, alone in his room, listening to some mindless rock song, and wishes he knew how to tell his father that he was okay - that he’d grieved for her, too.  Had he been older, they may have grieved in the same way, side-by-side. 

 

He feels the sobs bubble up in his chest and he panics.  He doesn’t want his father to hear him. He pushes the corner of his pillow between his teeth to stifle the sounds of his crying.  He’s so focused on the sounds his body is making and the rhythm of the drum beats in the music that he only realizes Derek is in his room when the werewolf touches a gentle finger to his forearm.  He jerks back so quickly that his pillow crashes into the lamp on his bedside table and threatens to demolish it. Luckily, Derek reaches out to catch it. 

 

He tugs the ear bud out of one ear and dashes a hand at his cheeks and nose.  “Wha-?”

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Stiles sniffs wetly, wiping a hand over his face.  “Peachy.” 

 

Derek’s eyebrows furrow.  “Anything I can help with?”

 

“No, Creeper Wolf.  How’d you get in here anyway?”

 

“Window.”  Derek puts the pillow on the floor and sits down on the computer chair nearby.  He thinks for a moment, then lets out a long sigh. “You still haven’t been sleeping well.”

 

“No shit, Sherlock.”

 

“Why do you do that?”

 

“What?”

 

“Joke around.  Get sarcastic. Lie, then deflect.”  He squints at Stiles, pursing his lips.  “Or try everything in your power to avoid talking about whatever it is that’s not letting you sleep like you need to.”

 

Stiles cocks an eyebrow at Derek.  “Really? You, Derek Hale, King of constipated emotions and resting bitch face, are asking  _ me _ why I use sarcasm and avoid conversations I don’t want to have?”  He snorts. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

 

“But you’re not.”  He gestures at the pillow on the floor.  “It doesn’t take wolf senses to see that you’re upset about something.”

 

“Yeah, well, it’s none of your damn business and if you hadn’t have used your wolf abilities to climb into my window like a freaking stalker-”

 

Derek leans back in the office chair and stretches.  “It’s not safe for you to be this exhausted, Stiles.”

 

“That’s why man invented caffeine.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes.  “You can only pump that crap into your body for so long before it no longer affects you like you need.  The human body needs rest-”

 

“And what do you know about the human body?”

 

“Fine.”  Derek casts a glance at Stiles’s closed door.  “But how long do you think you’ll be able to keep this up without others noticing?  Your dad?”

 

“I can operate quite well on little sleep - one of the best side effects of my meds.  Dad knows that. I’ve gotten really awesome at functioning and not making him worry.”

 

“Okay, how about Scott?  Surely he’s noticed that-”

 

“Werewolves suck,” Stiles says grumpily, picking up his pillow from the floor and fluffing it before pushing it behind his back.  “He’s noticed that I smell differently, but he’s not that observant. Honestly, I’ve kept this up for years-”

 

Derek’s beside him in an instant, eyes glowing blue in the darkness. He takes a fairly obvious sniff, then growls.  “Scott hasn’t had the advantage of wolf senses for long enough to really hone them in. But believe me, Stiles, if you don’t start getting some sleep, he’ll know.  You won’t be able to hide this like you used to, if what you’re saying is true. And there’s one thing about Scott - he’s loyal to a fault and he’ll make sure you’re taken care of, no matter the cost.  Pack, friends, family...” He places a hand on Stiles’s leg through the comforter and Stiles feels it like a hot iron. Immediately, Stiles feels a calm settle in his bones. He gasps as he realizes what’s happening.

 

“Don't do that!  I'm not  _ injured _ …”

 

He jerks his leg away harshly, glaring at the werewolf.  Derek just frowns at him and straightens up. “If you don’t start sleeping, you will get injured.”  He huffs an annoyed breath before crouching in the window pane, ready to leap out. “I’ll stop by tomorrow.  Get some rest. Now.”

 

Then, Stiles is alone again, left with both a chill from the window and a rush of heat from Derek’s actions.  It takes him an hour or so to drift off, but eventually he does. It’s a dreamless sleep and for that, Stiles is thankful.  


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles is smart. He may not apply himself as much as his teachers and his father would like, but he’s intelligent enough to problem solve this sleeping thing.

He finds himself in the small, family-owned drugstore across town the afternoon after Derek’s visit, strolling through the sleep aid section. Blue and lavender boxes boasting insomnia cures and restful night’s sleeps stare back at him as he peruses his choices. 

He selects two random boxes for comparison. Then, for good measure, he types in some of the active ingredients of both into his phone, and searches for information, including conflicts with Adderall. 

He’s squinting at the back of a third choice when the pharmacist walks up. “Are you finding everything alright?” 

“Yeah. I’m just….I’m picking up some stuff for my dad. He’s having trouble sleeping.”

The older woman nods, smiling. “That’s nice. Is he on any other medications? Have any existing conditions?”

Stiles flushes red. “Uh, yeah. He’s on some meds for depression and anxiety, I think. I’m not sure exactly what though,” he lies. 

She hums a bit, then reaches for a brown bottle of pills on the top shelf. “This should work for the short term,” she advises. “If he has trouble sleeping after trying these for a week or so, he probably needs to see a doctor.” She watches as Stiles puts away the boxes in his hands. “Will there be anything else you need?”

“No,” he breathes, feeling a weight lifting from his shoulders. “I think this will be it.”

~*~  
He doesn’t expect an overnight success story, obviously. The pharmacist did say it could take up to a week to see improvement, so Stiles is optimistic, but not overly so. He swallows the pills with a handful of water from the bathroom sink that night, hiding the bottle in his nightstand drawer. When Derek visits, he doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary and Stiles silently cheers at his ability to deceive the wolf.

In the morning, though, he’s surprised to find himself waking up from a dreamless, restful sleep with his alarm. He grabs the bottle of pills from their hiding spot and jiggles it just to hear them rattle inside. 

He’s just about to leave his bed when his window opens and Derek glides through. He squawks and tucks the pills under his pillow. “You realize that I’ll never stop having nightmares if you don’t stop scaring the shit out me?”

Derek frowns at him. “You slept last night.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Duh.” He whips his covers off and stands to stretch. “How long are you going to keep this up, anyway. I’m a big boy and I have a daddy.”

The tips of Derek’s ears flush red as he looks away. “Until I’m sure you’re okay.”

“I’m okay. See? All rested.” He brushes past Derek to grab his towel that’s draped over the computer chair and gasps when Derek grabs his forearm. “What?”

“You smell funny - different.” Derek takes a longer sniff. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Stiles spits, wrenching his arm away. “I slept, which is what you wanted me to do.”

“But you smell like-”

“If you don’t mind, Creeper Wolf, I’m going to be late to class if I don’t get in the shower.” He takes his towel and heads for the bathroom. Over his shoulder he calls, “you can let yourself out the same way you came in.” He fully expects that Derek will be gone since their conversation is over.

When he comes back out of the bathroom, though, freshly showered, he’s surprised to see Derek lounging in his chair. He’s holding the bottle of pills in his hands. Anger flames up inside of him. “You dick.”

“This isn’t the solution, Stiles. This is short-term at best. Where did you even get them?”

“It’s none of your fucking business,” Stiles grunts, trying to take the bottle from Derek’s hands. It’s futile, though, with Derek’s reflexes. He sighs, hands on his hips. “They’re safe. Bought them myself from the drugstore on McAdams. You act like these are illegal drugs or something.”

“I’m just worried about you,” Derek says, voice unreadable. “Something’s not right and this is just helping you bury it.”

“Like you’re one to talk.”

Derek shakes his head and rises. “Fine.” He tosses the pills at Stiles, harder than he intended. “But when these stop working, then what?”

Stiles swallows against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be fine. Stop making me out to be your pet project or whatever this is. And stop watching me.” He turns his face away, ashamed. He hears Derek huff an irritated breath behind him. 

“If you're not sleeping better in two days,” Derek warns, “you'll leave me no choice. I will tell the Sheriff.”

The window opens and shuts again, followed by silence. Stiles grits his teeth, walks to the window, and latches it tightly. “You're not my keeper, Derek Hale.” he says to no one. He’s pretty sure the wolf can hear him anyway, though. Luckily, the pills pull him into slumber easily again that evening and he feels as if he's won against Derek somehow. He unlatches the window, in case Derek wants to see the fruits of this victory. He's not surprised, though, when he doesn't see him the next night. He sleeps, though, and that's all that matters, right?

~*~

Of course, the victorious feeling doesn't last long.

He has two more nights of rest before the pills stop being as effective. 

He tries doubling up on them, but it actually makes things worse. He’s jittery, as if he's hiding something illegal in his room, and can't seem to get comfortable or focused. Not even playing Call of Duty online with Scott holds his interest. He feigns exhaustion to appease his friend, but then he paces the length of the thin rug beside his bed until his feet ache and his head is foggy. He crumples onto his bed, defeated, and tosses and turns until his alarm goes off, never truly dropping off long enough to feel rested. 

He decides to go ask the pharmacist some questions after school, tucking the bottle of pills in the bottom of his backpack before heading out for school.

~*~

Derek’s watching him again. 

Stiles can feel the pin prick feeling of the werewolf’s eyes on him as he steps out of his jeep in front of the school Monday morning. He frowns in irritation. He looks around a little, but can’t see Derek anywhere. “Creeper,” he murmurs to himself, hoping Derek can hear him. 

“Who are you talking to?” Scott asks from beside him, laughing. 

“No one.” 

“I’m starting to worry about you, dude. I mean you’re talking to yourself….” Scott grins at him and swings an arm over his shoulders. His face falls, though, when he pulls Stiles closer. “How much sleep did you get last night?” he asks in a low voice. He takes a deeper sniff of Stiles’s neck, grimacing. “You told me you were tired, that you were going to sleep early last night. But you smell worse than the last time-”

Stiles shakes his arm off immediately, moving away. “Dude, people are staring.” He laughs nervously. People in the parking lot are giving them strange looks. Danny gives him a thumbs up. “Must really like my aftershave, huh? Get your own!” he says, louder. A nearby freshman snickers. 

Scott just blinks at him, concerned and not at all paying attention to those around them. “Seriously, though - what’s wrong, Stiles?”

“I’m fine, Scott. Had another nightmare. No big deal.” He shoves through the front doors of the school and heads towards his locker, head ducked down in embarrassment. He looks up when Scott’s hand grips his wrist tightly and tugs. He quirks an eyebrow at Scott’s hold on his arm until the werewolf lets go. “Seriously, I’ve got this handled.”

“You don’t smell fine,” Scott replies. “I’m worried about you. Have you told your dad-”

“Told him what? There’s nothing going on.” Stiles grabs his history book and slams his locker shut, wincing at the clang of the metal. He takes a deep breath to calm himself, then turns to Scott, hands in his pockets. 

“But what if it’s your meds or something? Your dad needs to know if you can’t sleep-”

“I’m fine, Scott. I’ll just catch a nap during lunch or something. No big deal.”

He stalks down the hallway alone, ignoring Scott calling after him.

~*~  
“Stilinski!” 

Stiles jerks his head up from his desk. “Wha-?”

Finstock stands above him, glaring down. “It’s not time for a siesta, Stilinski. This is history class.”

The class giggles around him and Stiles glances at the clock. He’s slept through almost all of first period. “Sorry, Coach. Guess I’m not feeling that good.”

Finstock frowns, but goes to his desk to scribble on a hall pass. “You’re lucky Greenberg’s got a sprained ankle and I need you on the field this weekend. Get down to the nurse’s office.” 

“Yes, sir.” Stiles scoops his book and notes into his backpack and shuffles down the hallway to the office. A glance at his phone shows a half dozen texts from Scott. He turns it off and shoves it into his pocket. As he opens the door to enter the office, he sees a familiar figure at the secretary’s desk. Rafe is speaking to her in a soft, but serious tone. He looks up when Stiles walks in.

“Shit.”

“Mr. Stilinski!” the woman behind the desk admonishes. “Language!”

“Uh...I…sorry, Miss Henrich.” He passes the slip of paper over to her, willing his hand to stop shaking. 

“The nurse is out today. Need me to call your dad?”

“No, I can-”

“Nonsense. I’ll give him a call. Just have a seat over there.” The secretary smiles up at Rafe. “Excuse me, Mr. McCall. It will just be a moment.” She leaves the desk to rifle through a file cabinet. 

Rafe turns to Stiles, smiling broadly. “Not feeling good, buddy?”

Stiles shivers. “I’m not your buddy,” he mutters under his breath. Then, he slumps down in the upholstered chair nearest the door, stomach turning slowly. “I’m just tired.”

“Huh.” The older man takes the seat next to Stiles. His right knee grazes Stiles’s as he sprawls out. 

It looks natural, normal, but Stiles knows it’s not. He grits his teeth to keep from flinching away, eyes on the secretary as if willing her to turn around and just look. She’s on the phone now, though, and not paying any attention to the rest of the office. He swallows hard, then slides his legs so they’re farther away from Rafe’s. 

“You know,” Rafe says smoothly, almost whispering and leaning so his mouth is closer to Stiles’s ear. “You used to have trouble sleeping when you were younger. After-”

Stiles nods once, sharply, not even trying to hide the chill that runs up his spine at the sensation of Rafe’s breath on his ear. He grips his backpack tighter, scoots farther away in his chair until the wooden armrest is digging into his ribs. The secretary is laughing about something the person on the phone is saying, her back to them. He bites at his tongue to keep from screaming.

“I always wondered what was causing those nightmares that year. You were so troubled. Didn’t sleep so well at our house. And it seemed like I was always trying to help you out with the nightmares, but you were so stubborn…”

Stiles shoots up off the chair, heart racing. “I’ve gotta go.” He’s out of the office before the secretary can realize he’s even stood up and he nearly runs through the hallway as he hears Rafe calling after him. When he hits the parking lot, he does run - panting heavily, palms sweaty, stomach pitching and rolling.

He makes it to his jeep before a hand comes down on his shoulder. 

He shrieks, spinning around with a hand up and ready to punch. His bookbag falls to the concrete, spilling its contents. The bottle of pills rolls out and under his jeep. 

Derek’s eyes are blazing blue and he catches Stiles’s fist before it makes contact with his face. “Stiles? What’s wrong?”

Stiles gasps for air like he’s drowning. He crumples against the jeep and allows Derek to hold him up by the shirt. He tries not to think about how he looks to Derek right now. His brain is on overdrive and he can’t calm himself. The adrenaline pumping through his system is chasing away any of the leftover exhaustion he’d been feeling and he frantically looks over Derek’s shoulder to see if he was followed. The parking lot looks empty save for them, which he’s grateful for. “I’m f-”

“Don’t you dare say fine,” Derek growls. “This isn’t fine. Your heart is going a mile a minute and you smell scared.” He casts his own glance over his shoulder when Stiles peeks again. “What are you looking for?”

Stiles closes his eyes, concentrates on breathing. In, out. In, out. In, out. His heart is still rapid fire, but the tension is leaving his back and chest. “I just need to get home. You were right. Not enough sleep. The pills stopped working and-”

“Stiles?” Rafe’s voice booms across the parking lot and Stiles tenses all over again. “Stiles Stilinski! Your dad’s coming to get you! The secretary said you need to come back inside to wait.”

Derek’s eyes widen as Stiles’s body goes rimrod straight and fresh sweat dots his forehead. “Stiles-”

Then Stiles is shoving at him with more strength than Derek was aware of the human possessing, clamoring into his jeep and slamming the door shut behind him. Derek watches as he frantically searches his pockets, then peers out the window. He can see his keys laying on the ground near the spilled bookbag. Stiles’s mouth puckers and he slides down in the seat until he’s almost invisible. 

Derek turns around to face the man approaching the jeep. He carefully puts his hands in his pockets of his jacket to hide the sharp tips of his claws from view. Internal alarms are going off inside his head - Stiles’s reaction to the sight of the man notwithstanding. He sniffs delicately but can only smell human. That only makes the wrongbadkill instincts become stronger. He shakes his head to clear it and plasters a smile on his face. “Can I help you?” he asks.

“Stilinski. The office needs to see him.” 

“Who?”

The man lets out an irritated huff of breath as he looks over Derek’s shoulder at the jeep. “Stiles Stilinski.”

“I haven’t seen him,” Derek lies. 

Rafe frowns. “I just saw him talking to you.”

“You must be mistaken.”

Rafe’s nostrils flare. “Look, punk,” he spits venomously, “I don’t know who you are or what your problem is, but Stiles needs to get back in the office unless he wants an unexcused absence on his permanent record.”

Derek squints his eyes. “I’m sorry. Do you work here or something?”

“I’m FBI, kid. Now step aside so I can help Stiles get back to the building.” Rafe starts to move towards the jeep, but Derek steps in his way. “You’re testing my patience.”

“And you’re testing mine.” Derek grits his teeth and closes his eyes as the wolf inside threatens to come forward and rip into the man. 

He feels the man step closer, into his space, and his fangs descend in his mouth a bit. He hears Stiles’s panicked breathing in the jeep and smells fresh anxiety flushing through his body. His jaw starts to ache with the need to keep his wolf at bay. Something about this man is wrong. Something about him makes Stiles petrified. He can’t help the instinctive urge to protect pack. His fingers tingle with the need to shred and maim...

“Derek!” 

Stiles is out of the jeep, one hand coming up to slap Derek on his back and the other pinching him through the leather jacket just hard enough to ground him. Derek feels his wolf sinking back a bit. “Ha, ha,” Stiles breathes, absolutely reeking of fear, “this guy. Such a kidder, am I right?” He looks up at Derek, pleading with his eyes, but trying to act nonchalant. 

“Stiles,” Rafe says, tone and body language completely morphing in front of Derek’s face, He still smells like danger, but he looks like a normal human. “Is this guy giving you trouble?”

“Who? Derek?” Stiles chuckles nervously, pinching Derek’s arm tighter. “Nah, we’re good buddies, right, Der?”

Derek nods his head because he can’t yet speak - his fangs are still half-elongated. Rafe scowls at him, then turns his attention back to Stiles, softening his gaze. 

“That’s fine, then. You gave the secretary quite a scare, though, Stiles, and she wants you to come back inside until your dad gets here.” 

He steps forward, arm outstretched as if he’s going to touch Stiles and Derek tastes blood in his mouth with his restraint. Stiles slides behind him a bit, dodging Rafe. He ducks down and grabs his keys and backpack, scooping up the scattered papers, books, and pens. As he starts to straighten up, a police cruiser pulls up behind Rafe and John steps out. 

“Boys. Rafael.” he says, nodding his head at each in turn. “Ms. Henrich called and said you weren’t feeling well?”

“Just tired, Dad. Can you take me home?” Stiles doesn’t hesitate, though, in scampering over to the passenger side of the cruiser and slipping inside. 

John frowns. “Uh, okay.” He looks over at Derek, whose hands are still pushed deep in his pockets, and sighs. “Everything alright here, then?”

“Everything’s fine, Stilinski,” Rafe says, eyes cold. “I was just mentioning to Derek here that Stiles needed to wait in the office for you. Don’t want the school to think Stiles is skipping class to hang out with….” Rafe gives Derek a once-over, lip nearly curling with disgust. “But I think we have an understanding about that, right?”

“Is there any reason you should be here, Derek?” John asks, one eyebrow raised in question. “Anything I need to be aware of?”

“I was just in the neighborhood, sir. Saw Stiles come barrelling out of the building and thought I’d make sure he was okay.” He leans down to look into the cruiser, catching Stiles’s eyes. “Everything alright now?”

“I just need some sleep.” Stiles tosses his keys to Derek, who catches them with surprise. His claws have receded enough that they’re no longer suspicious. “Would you drive her home for me? I’m not sure that I’m in any condition to drive right now.”

“Sure.” 

“Do you need me to stay here with Stiles while you go sort things out with the office?” Rafe suggests.

“No.”

John’s head swivels quickly to Derek, who’d answered the question. He studies his face carefully, then opens his door. “I think I’ll just give them a call, but thanks.” He glances at Stiles. “Think I’ll call in for the rest of the day, too. Just to be safe.”

Derek stands still and waits until John’s car is out of sight before stepping up to Rafe. “I don’t know what just happened,” he says, voice low and threatening, “but if you come near Stiles again-”

“I’d think before I’d speak if I were you.” Rafe fishes his FBI badge out of his pocket and slips it over his head. “I may not have put two and two together at first, but I know you, Derek Hale. Don’t think I don’t know that your sister was murdered and you were the prime suspect.”

“Then you should know that the sheriff cleared me of that.”

Rafe’s eyes glitter in the morning light. “John doesn’t always see the facts, does he?” When he leans closer, Derek can smell the faint traces of whiskey, covered by mouthwash and coffee. It makes him want to gag. “Just know that while I’m in town, I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Hale. Stiles doesn’t need to be hanging around you.”

Derek watches the man walk away from him, left hand hurting with the pressure of squeezing Stiles’s keys in the palm. He pointedly ignores the bottle of sleeping pills left on the ground as he climbs into the jeep and drives off. He leaves the jeep in the drive and the keys in the mailbox, figuring Stiles needs some space. Then, he shifts and runs through the woods until his body aches.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, kids....this one's a long one....and it goes nearly full dark side. I promise I'm going to fix Stiles, guys, but the plot is getting more and more twisted. Stay tuned!

It’s midnight when Derek comes into his room this time. 

Stiles isn’t asleep, but he’s not alone, either. John is at the desk, head down and snoring into his paperwork. Stiles looks up in alarm as Derek’s feet land quiet on the carpet. 

“Oh, uh...sorry. I’ll-”

Stiles motions for him to be quiet and follow as he tiptoes out into the hallway. “Dude, not cool. If my dad sees you here, he’s going to think there’s something bigger going on.”

Derek sighs. “Yeah, well, something bigger is going on. What happened this morning? And who the hell was that guy?”

“Scott’s dad.”

“Scott’s dad?”

“Yeah.” Stiles slides down the wall of the hallway so he can sit. “He’s a grade A douchebag.”

“I got that.” Derek follows suit and sits down opposite Stiles. “Why is he following you around? Did you do something that requires the FBI to investigate? Is that what this is all about?”

“No! God, no. I just don’t like him.”

“It’s more than that, though.” When Stiles scoffs, Derek huffs in irritation. “Stiles, you were terrified today. I’ve never seen you so upset and that includes all the times you’ve come across the supernatural.”

Stiles shrugs. “Maybe it was a side effect of those pills.”

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, those things are bad news, but you got worse when that asshole showed up outside.”

Stiles is quiet for a long moment, looking down at his fingers intently. Derek waits, watching. 

“He’s investigating my dad,” Stiles admits. Derek doesn’t hear a tick in his heartbeat, but it doesn’t sound like the whole truth, either. “Not to mention, he’s starting crap with Melissa and Scott. He’s overall just a bad guy.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“That’s not the reason your heart was about to beat out of your chest this morning. This is something else.” Derek notices a twitch of Stiles’s cheek. 

“I almost tripped coming out of the school when you caught me. That’s it.”

“Don’t-don’t lie to me, Stiles.” Derek growls lowly as he picks up the spike in Stiles’s heart. He stands up and begins to pace, his wolf twitching and pawing at his insides. “Is he dangerous?”

“No. Just a big jerk.” Another spike - smaller this time.

“Does Scott know how bad of a guy he is?”

Stiles’s nose squirms and Derek watches as he scrubs at his face brutally. “He’s not that bad of a guy. Just creeps me out.” He stands up quickly. “I think I’m gonna try to sleep again. Get out of here before my dad wakes up.”

Derek catches his wrist before he can get to his door, though. He can smell the exhaustion, but also a thick cloying scent of depression and hopelessness. He holds Stiles still. He concentrates on the boy’s pulse beneath his fingers, then takes a short, small draw of the pain from him - so small that Stiles doesn’t seem to be aware. He swallows as he thinks of his next question. “Is he the reason you’ve been having nightmares?”

“Leave it alone.” Stiles’s voice is small, like a child’s, and it makes Derek drop his arm in response. “Please, just...leave all of this alone. I’m fine.”

Then, Stiles is in his room and Derek can hear him rousing his father and tutting at him for falling asleep at the desk. He inwardly curses before slinking out and away from the house.

~*~

“Derek! What can I do for you?” Sheriff Stilinski ushers Derek into his office and shuts the door behind him. He smells tired. Derek can’t blame him - he didn’t sleep much the previous night either. 

He looks around the tiny office at the piles of boxes and stacks of paper on every available flat surface. Each box has a small yellow label on the side marked “FBI - release to Agent McCall.” 

“McCall - Scott’s dad?”

John sits down heavily into his chair and heaves a big sigh. “Yeah.”

“He’s FBI.”

“He is.”

“And he’s investigating you?”

The sheriff sighs longsufferingly and rubs a hand down his face. “Seems to be.”

“For what?”

“Son, I know you think Beacon Hills is your responsibility because of your mother, but-”

“That’s not it.” Derek wipes at the back of his neck. “I just need to know what kind of guy he is.”

John looks at him for a long moment. “Did he say something to you yesterday? He can be kind of intimidating when he needs to be.”

Derek shakes his head. “He told me he knew who I was, about my past and about Laura - that he’d keep an eye on me…”

“He’s just doing his job, son,” John says wearily. “He might not know all of the story, but he’s coming in with fresh eyes and Lord knows I’m feeling the brunt of his job right now, too.” He gestures at the mess in the office. “I guess I’m not really a great person to speak to his character at the moment with all that’s going on. Sometimes it’s difficult to extract my emotions when something hits so hard and fast like Rafael McCall can. His tenacity is some of why he’s a good agent, I suppose.”

“Would you say that he’s dangerous?”

“God, no. He’s one of the good guys, Derek. He’s on the team, you know? He’s just a bit higher ranking than some of us.” 

“Scott would agree? That he’s a good guy?”

“I don’t think you should be poking that particular bear, Derek.”

“Why not?”

John sighs again, leaning forward on his elbows and clasping his hands together tightly. “Look, it’s not my place to tell you about the McCalls’ past. It’s not for you to know, anyway. But it looks like Rafe’s got himself turned around and is trying to-”

“What happened?”

“It was a messy divorce, is all. Very sudden. Happened just after Scott had his accident-”

“Accident?”

“I’m afraid I can’t-”

“Please,” Derek begs. “Scott’s pack. Anything that threatens pack is a threat to us all.”

“Rafael McCall may have had trouble in his marriage - might have drank a bit too much for Melissa’s tastes - but he’s not a dangerous person. He didn’t cause the accident, if that’s what you’re thinking.” His heart beat trips over itself once, then twice. 

“I don’t know what to think - you won’t tell me anything that I need to know and what you’ve just told me made your heart skip a beat. Something you’re saying isn’t the truth. And without knowing the truth, how am I supposed to ensure that the pack is safe?” 

“They’re safe, okay? I’m not at liberty to discuss Rafe’s marital or family problems. Hell, I’m not at liberty to discuss my own damn problems at the moment. But he’s different now, having been without his family for these past 5 years. He’s still a good man.”

“That’s not what I sensed yesterday. Stiles was-”

John looks up sharply. “What about Stiles?”

“He was scared, Sheriff.”

 

“Of what?”

“All signs point to Mr. McCall, sir. His adrenaline and heart rate spiked when Stiles realized he was being followed.”

“Did you ask him? Did he tell you why he was scared?”

“He said he tripped coming out of the building, but it seemed like something else. He was agitated at first, but when Mr. McCall came out, you’d have thought Stiles had found his leg in a bear trap.”

“I see.” The sheriff leaned back in his chair and took in a long breath, looking over at the framed picture of Stiles on his desk. “Listen. Whatever happened yesterday was probably just Stiles being clumsy and Rafe being protective. When Claudia passed away, Rafe stepped in and helped me take care of Stiles. He’d take him and Scott to baseball games and the movies. He’d help them both with homework. He took them swimming and hiking and to church on Sundays when I couldn’t even get out of bed.” John’s voice breaks a bit and he coughs to clear his throat. “I’m just saying that Rafe was like a father figure to Stiles when I couldn’t be there for him. He kept my boy safe when I couldn’t. That counts for something.”

Derek swallows around the lump in his throat. “So, I’m just supposed to take your word for it that he’s safe - that he won’t hurt someone?”

John shrugs. “I can’t believe anything else.” He looks as if he might cry, though, and it breaks Derek’s heart.

“Fine.” Derek grits his teeth. “But he left after Scott’s accident that he didn’t cause?” He notices the subtle shift John makes in his seat. “Do you know the cause?”

The sheriff casts a glance at the door and just like that, his face shutters. “Son, I think you’re asking the wrong person. You want to talk about Scott, ask him.” John flicks the box sitting on the corner of his desk, right on the label. “I’ve taken an oath to not discuss cases with anyone outside of the force. At this point in time, my hands are tied.”

It’s as much a dismissal as Derek’s ever heard and he nearly groans in frustration when he sees Rafe standing at Parrish’s desk, talking. “I see how it is.” He stalks through the police department and out the front door before the FBI agent has a chance to acknowledge his leaving.

~*~  
“You can use the front door, you know.”

It’s one-thirty in the morning and Derek frowns as he opens Stiles’s window and climbs inside. “You should be sleeping.” He leans against Stiles’s desk and crosses his arms over his chest. “I talked to your dad today.”

Stiles’s eyes narrow as he swings his feet out from under the covers and sits up to face the werewolf. “Why?”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Again, I ask - why?” Stiles lets out a humorless chuckle. “There’s nothing to worry about. So what if I can’t sleep well? It’s not really-”

“It’s not just the lack of sleeping anymore. Something happened with Scott’s dad and I can’t-”

“I didn’t feel well. I fell asleep in class and-”

“It was more than that. That FBI agent-”

Stiles is on his feet and crowding Derek against the desk, eyes full of fury. “No. None of this is your business.” 

“You keep saying that, but it’s not true,” Derek says, keeping his voice low. He can hear the steady snoring of John down the hallway and he’s not ready to deal with him again today. “You’re part of this pack, Stiles, and so you are my business.”

“I’m human!” Stiles flings his arms up into the air in exasperation. “I keep telling you that, but your thick head won’t let the information sink in. Leave me alone and go ask Scott about his dad if you’re so interested. I’m finished talking about him.”

Derek stands up straight, reaching out and grasping Stiles by one arm and pulling him closer to his body. “You might be human, but you’re part of this pack, Stiles. I wish you’d just stop and see that. And pack helps each other.” He pulls a little of the pain from Stiles’s body before letting go of the teenager altogether. “I won’t ask about Mr. McCall again if that’s what you want, but let me help you rest.” When Stiles looks dubious, he adds, “please?”

“I'm not in physical pain so I'm not sure why you keep insisting you can help.”

“You're beyond exhausted, which is a physical discomfort. I can help with that much at least.”

Stiles backs up, then sags against his bed, yawning. “It’s not fair if you do your wolfy mojo on me like that.” 

“It’s not fair for you to live like this when there’s something I can do to help you.” Derek’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He takes it out and sighs. “I’ve got to go. Just….just think about it.”

Derek’s out the window before Stiles can speak again. Stiles stretches and yawns once, smacking his lips together satisfactorily. His body feels looser, warmer than it had been a few minutes ago and he can’t help but feel irritated at Derek for it. “Stupid werewolves,” he says to himself. He slides back under his covers. 

He’s just about to sleep when his window opens again. “What now?” he asks, exasperated. But when he looks over at the window, he almost screams. It’s not Derek in his room - it’s Rafe. “What-”

“So this is how your boyfriend gets into the house, huh? Does your dad know?” Rafe scowls at him and comes closer. He’s wearing pajama pants and a white t-shirt, hair mussed from sleeping, feet bare. His breath reeks of whiskey, bitter and sour - Stiles can smell it from across the room. “I don’t think your daddy would appreciate Derek Hale sneaking into your room at night.”

Stiles scrabbles backwards until he’s on the other side of his bed, legs tangled in his sheets. He falls out onto the floor with a thump and he hopes his father hears it and comes running. Unfortunately, the sound of his snoring can still be heard down the hall. “What are you doing here? Get out.”

“Now is that any way to speak to me, Stiles?” Rafe is moving closer, slowly, but watches the door. He’s cat-like - predatory. “Funny, though. You probably didn’t talk to Derek like that.” He turns back to Stiles and smiles, twisted. “Bet you say such pretty things to him, don’t you?”

Stiles slides one hand under his bed, reaching and searching for his bat. It’s too far away - closer to the other side - and he clenches his teeth from the effort. “Go away. Leave me alone.” His voice is getting stronger, louder. He thinks if he keeps talking, his father will hear him. 

Rafe is standing over the other side of the bed now, teeth white in the dark as he smiles. “I bet you let Derek put his hands on you, too. I bet you love it when he touches you. Always knew you’d turn up liking men. You always gave me these signals.”

Stiles’s whole body shivers; bile creeps up his throat. His lungs ache and he realizes that he’s been breathing fast and shallow for a while now. He tries so hard to make his voice work - to scream out for his father, but his body won’t allow it. He lets out a strangled gasp instead, ducking down so he can dive under the bed to reach the bat. He’s halfway under the bed now; he can see Rafe’s feet in the darkness. He can feel his heart rabbiting in his chest and he makes broad sweeps of his arms against the floor, shoving discarded paperbacks and shoes out of his way. His fingertips finally graze the cool metal of his bat. It rolls forward out of reach, though. Rafe’s foot moves and he toes the bat just out of reach. 

“Uh-uh, pretty,” Rafe says playfully. “We’re not playing that kind of game today.”

“Stiles!”

Derek’s voice is loud in the dark and Rafe’s feet pivot towards the sound. Stiles feels his body sag in relief. “Derek,” he croaks. 

“Stiles! Can you hear me?”

His brain buzzes. “Wha-?”

“He can’t hear you,” Rafe sing-songs. “You think he can, but he can’t…”

There’s a sharp pain on his fingers - a pinch and a bone-crushing ache - and he squeezes his eyes shut as Rafe’s heel grinds down on them. “Derek, help!”

“I’ve got you, Stiles.”

“Get him out of here,” he whimpers, trying to pull his hand out from under Rafe’s foot. He gasps as they come loose and he snatches his hand back to cradle against his chest under the bed. “Just get him away from me.”

“Stiles!” 

Derek’s voice is booming now, deafening. If his dad hasn’t heard him yet, he will now. Stiles can still see Rafe’s feet, though, and he can’t find Derek’s. It’s like he can hear Derek, but he’s not really here. “Derek?” he mewls pathetically. 

“Stiles, I need you to wake up for me. Wake up, Stiles!”

“What?”

His room comes spiralling back into focus and Stiles is surprised to see that he’s still in his bed, covers tucked in tightly around him. His eyes search the room expectedly - looking for Rafe. He’s startled, though, to see that Derek’s above him instead, eyes red and fangs out. His overhead light is on. He blinks owlishly at the werewolf as he reorients himself. “Where is he?”

Derek looks around the room quickly, taking a sniff of the air around them. “Who?”

Stiles is shaking. “Mr. McCall. He was just-”

“He was here?” 

“You didn’t see him? He was just here.” Stiles closes his eyes tightly, gasps when he recalls seeing Rafe’s feet under his bed. “I was asleep?” Derek nods once. “What happened?”

“You tell me.”

Stiles shifts awkwardly underneath Derek’s gaze. “I don’t know. Where’s my dad?”

“He’s working late tonight.” Derek’s eyebrows furrow. “You don’t remember?”

“He’s not in his room sleeping?” Stiles feels the panic rise up in his chest. 

“No.” 

“And there’s no one else in here but us?”

“No.”

Stiles lets out a shaky breath. “Is….is my bat still under my bed?”

Derek lets him go for a second to check. “Yeah. Why?”

“No reason. Vivid dream is all.”

Derek rubs a hand over his face. “Stiles-”

“It was so real.” Derek waits silently. He doesn’t move, though, and Stiles swallows at the closeness. His heart is racing and his palms are sweaty. His right hand aches. “My hand hurts.”

Derek shakes his head as if to clear it, then frowns. When he looks up at Stiles again, his face is more human than wolf again. “I’m sorry about that. You just wouldn’t wake up.” Derek places a hand on Stiles’s. “Can I-?”

Stiles is silent, but nods his head shortly, allowing Derek to start pulling the dull pain from his knuckles. Once the pain has receded enough to be just a faint discomfort, he tugs his hand free and shoves it under the blankets. “Thanks.” He looks around his room again, the fear still tingling the back of his neck. “How long was I asleep do you think?” 

“You were snoring when I came in about twenty minutes ago. I didn’t mean to stay so long, but you started smelling like fear. Then your breathing picked up and your heart-”

“It was a nightmare. Not anything I haven’t dealt with before.” 

“I’m thinking more like night terror. I was screaming for you to wake up. Nothing helped.”

Stiles slumps back on his bed. “I’m fine. Just a bad dream. And hey, I got some sleep, right?”

“You are not fine,” Derek says sternly. “And that wasn’t sleep, Stiles. That was-” He gets up and starts pacing the room, arms crossed over his chest. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but I can’t let you just keep this up.” He takes a long breath in, then looks Stiles right in the eyes. “Tell me what happened with Rafael McCall.”

“No.”

“Did he hurt you?”

Stiles huffs a little laugh. “No.” His heart is steady, though.

Derek purses his lips. “Fine. At least let me help you sleep.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Will it get you off my back?”

“Yes.”

“You have to promise me you’ll never bring up Mr. McCall again. He’s just an asshole. Unrelated to this sleeplessness.” His heartbeat trips staccato once, twice.

“Deal.” Derek’s glad Stiles is human and can’t hear his own lie. 

~*~

“I need your help.”

Deaton looks up from the terrier on his table, one eyebrow cocked curiously. “Hello to you, too, Derek.” He fiddles with the animal’s cast, checks the plastic cone around its head, and then runs a calming hand down its flank. The dog looks at Derek with wary eyes, but doesn’t growl. “I was just finishing up with a check up on Missy here. Can you give me hand?” Deaton gestures towards the door to the room of cages. 

Derek nods and opens it, staying back so not to stir up the masses. He waits for Deaton to secure the dog and return, absently looking at posters on the walls of the exam room. 

“What kind of help do you need today, Derek?”

“It’s about Stiles.”

“Stiles?” Deaton looks puzzled. “What about Stiles?”

“Something’s wrong with him. He’s not sleeping, having nightmares.”

“Stiles is a big boy, Derek. I hardly think a few scary dreams and some insomnia, given his hyperactive state of being, calls for a visit to your mother’s emissary.” He frowns when Derek doesn’t respond. “Unless you think this is mystical?”

“No. I-” Derek starts pacing the exam room. “I think it’s got something to do with Scott’s dad.”

“Scott’s father?”

“Yes.”

“I thought Mr. McCall lived in Washington, D.C.? Scott said they didn’t speak much and I was under the impression they weren’t on good terms.”

“Yeah, well, he’s back. In Beacon Hills.”

“I see.” Deaton strokes a hand over his chin thoughtfully. “And you’re worried about Stiles?”

Derek clenches his teeth. “Yes.”

“Excuse me if I’m being rude, but I’m not following the connection here. You’re saying you think that Stiles isn’t sleeping because of Scott’s father?”

“Stiles won’t give me details, but there’ve been signs that something’s wrong. Scott’s noticed them, too.” He rubs a hand over the back of his head. “Well, maybe not all of them or who they’re connected to, but…”

“Signs?”

“Stiles had a confrontation in the parking lot of the school the other day with Scott’s father-”

“Confrontation?”

“Mr. McCall followed Stiles out of the school and into the parking lot and Stiles was scared of him. Upper levels of fear scared,” he says, looking Deaton right in the eye. “Worse than facing the kanima or learning about werewolves for the first time. And he had a night terror last night where he was sure Mr. McCall was in the room.” He lets out a frustrated sigh when Deaton appears unaffected. “He smells weak, Deaton. Not enough sleep and too much fear is a deadly combination- and lately, there’ve been more and more supernatural beings in Beacon Hills. I’m worried he’ll be targeted if we don’t do something.”

Deaton’s lips purse in concentration. “And you’ve asked him about this? Questioned why he’s afraid of Mr. McCall?”

“He’s lied about it...or dodged my questioning.”

“Perhaps he’s not ready to disclose information to you about this. Again, I’ll ask - if Scott’s noticed something, does he know what’s wrong? He’s much closer to Stiles than you are and maybe has some insight into why Stiles is so uncomfortable around his father…”

“Whatever it is, he doesn’t want Scott to know about it. Or the sheriff.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and breathes through his nose evenly for a few seconds. “He won’t let me take his pain, either. Barely lets me near him. He’s skittish and angry when I even attempt to help...”

“Then why don’t you leave it alone? He obviously doesn’t want anyone to know-”

“That’s not an option,” Derek roars. The dogs in the adjoining room begin to howl and yip at the sound. “If he would just let me help him relax…” 

Deaton, however, doesn’t even blink. “Sometimes in life, Derek, you have to let people deal with their own problems, their own thoughts, their own memories. If I remember correctly, you didn’t take well to people helping you out when-”

“Don’t-”

“People are animals, too. In my working with your family and these animals in my practice, I’ve come to realize that humans react similarly to pain, anguish, and fear. There’s a fight or flight response and it seems that Stiles has chosen to run from this - whatever it may be.” Deaton leans forward, face dark. “Have you tried to calm a frightened rabbit when they’re trying to escape from what they fear?” Derek shakes his head once. “Werewolf aside, it’s a very difficult task. The more you try to help it, the more it tries to flee. Your best of intentions can often go astray in this moment. I think that maybe Stiles is rejecting your offers for help because it’s making his anxiety work even harder. When you are attempting to help him, does his heart rate increase? His breathing?”

“Yes.” 

“It can be sometimes even more dangerous to approach what we fear in our minds than it is to face it head on. Has Stiles seen a regular doctor, Derek? Or a psychologist?”

“Not that I know of. He was in the hospital a while back for a panic attack, but... He bought sleeping pills on his own last week, but they didn’t work.” Derek huffs, bracing himself against the center table. He can smell the sharp scent of antiseptic along with traces of animal blood leftover from past procedures. It makes his hackles tingle. “I think Mr. McCall did something to Stiles a long time ago. He won’t tell me, or anyone, what it was.”

“Did you know,” Deaton continues conversationally, bending down to open a cabinet below, “that your mother had a very special way of accessing and relieving a sorrowful soul of painful memories?”

“What?”

“Talia, like many great Alphas in this world, possessed the information and skill to tap into the mind of humans and other werewolves. She mostly used it for helping the grieving, but I assume that she might have used it with her children, too.”

“I-”

“Tell me, Derek, do you recall any times in your young life when you were plagued with nightmares or fear?”

“Of course.”

Deaton’s eyes dance with intrigue. “Before the fire?”

Derek splutters. “I-”

“I imagine that you can’t think of a single time when you felt anything but love, safety, and warmth when your mother was alive.” Deaton smirks. “It’s okay to wonder about it. The procedure isn’t easy. It involves inserting the tips of an Alpha’s claws into the spinal cord of the afflicted. It’s a difficult process and one tiny mistake can be disastrous. In fact, there were a few times I recall your mother mentioning the risks involved with it - she had witnessed another werewolf using the technique with a recent widower. The Alpha had apparently went a hair too deep and the man never recovered. He was laid to rest beside his wife within a week.” He puts a small brown journal onto the countertop and leafs through it, stopping at a page and pushing it towards Derek. “I’m not sure that this would be the best way to handle Stiles’s problem, but if it’s memories he’s afraid of, you could relieve him of them.”

Derek looks down at the pencil sketch and tight, heavy handwriting of his mother’s and his wolf howls mournfully for her inside his head. He reads a few paragraphs in silence. “It has to be an Alpha who does this?”

Deaton hums, leans down, and reads a few lines. “I believe so, yes. I don’t have any record of a Beta or Omega even attempting it. And only those Alphas who were well centered and fully in control of their wolves ever even tried it….”

Derek tugs the book closer so he can read more easily. His finger traces the lettering near the bottom of the page. “But my mother did it. Multiple times?”

“Yes, but…” Deaton reaches out for the book, but Derek is faster. He’s got the book under his jacket in a flash.

“You’re sure it has to be an Alpha?”

“It’s very dangerous for even an Alpha of the strongest variety to perform this without consequences. It might not be the best way to deal with all of this…you could kill him, Derek!”

Derek’s no longer listening, though and is out the front door before Deaton can stop him - already thinking of how to use the information to help Stiles.

~*~

Stiles and Scott have a standing Wednesday evening homework arrangement, which has been in place since high school began and today is no different. Stiles is sprawled backwards on Scott’s bed, while Scott is slumped over his desk scribbling notes in a notebook. It’s calm and it’s normal, his stockinged feet flopped carelessly on top of Scott’s pillows. He smirks when he thinks about his friend having to sleep on them later. It’s so homey that he can feel his body relax and his eyes get heavy. He chews on the end of his highlighter as he rereads the same paragraph for the third time. Finally, he realizes he’s quickly losing the battle for sleep, sighs and closes his book in defeat. He shakes his hands sharply a few times to wake himself up.

“I should probably head home,” he says, glancing over at the clock on Scott’s bedside table. “Dad’ll be home soon.”

Scott rolls his eyes, not looking up from his homework. “He knows you’re studying here. It’s no big deal. Mom left money for pizza if you’re up for it.”

“Yeah, but I want to be able to see if I can locate and rehide dad’s secret Oreo stash before he gets there.”

Scott hums amusedly. “You’re mean. Just let the man have his Oreos.”

“Only when his cholesterol level goes down another three points.” Stiles looks serious, but his voice is affectionately stern. He smiles when he remembers his father finding a package of Oreos duct taped behind the laundry hamper. “Besides, it keeps him on his toes when he has to look for something.”

Scott laughs. “He’s the sheriff. It’s kind of his job to look for clues. He’s like an expert.”

“An expert should already know where I’m going to hide them next. I’m honestly running out of places I haven’t hid them before.” Stiles stretches and tries to stifle a yawn, but Scott sees. 

“You get anymore sleep yet?” 

“Ugh….I’m gonna try and go to bed earlier tonight and see if that helps.” He throws his highlighter at Scott’s head and misses terribly. “Stop worrying about me - you’re starting to sound like Derek.”

“Derek?”

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway makes them both turn towards the window. “What the-”

“I thought your mom had night shift tonight.”

“She does.” Scott strides over to the window and scowls. “Shit. It’s my dad.” Immediately, Scott’s nose is bombarded by the scent of anxiety and fear coming from Stiles and he whips his head around to look at his friend. “Are you okay?”

“I...I really have to go.” Stiles is shoving books and pens into his backpack as quickly as he can, stuffing his feet into his sneakers haphazardly as he goes. “Oreos can’t wait, you know.”

Scott reaches out, touches Stiles’s shoulder, and gasps when Stiles jerks away from him violently. “Dude!”

“Sorry….I’m jumpy lately.” Stiles titters a nervous laugh. It sends shivers down Scott’s spine. “I just gotta hurry if I’m gonna beat my dad home, you know?”

“Scott?” Rafe’s voice booms up the staircase. “Are you home? I saw Stilinski's jeep out front...”

Scott watches as Stiles’s face goes three shades whiter, then pushes past him and slips through the doorway, closing the door behind him as he goes. He meets his father in the hallway. “You can’t keep just walking in here,” he says, crossing his arms in front of him. “This isn’t your house and you don’t live here anymore.”

Rafe’s cheeks pinken and his eyes darken. “Look, I know your mom’s at work for the night and thought I’d check up on you.”

“I’m sixteen. I can take care of myself, like I’ve done for a while without you.” 

“Nice manners you’ve learned lately, Scott,” Rafe snarks lightly. He cranes his head to try to look around Scott’s body. In a louder voice, he says, “What’s wrong with a father making sure his son is staying out of trouble while his mother’s away?”

“That’s funny,” Scott spits, tips of claws threatening to break his own skin. “I thought you referred to yourself as a father in that scenario. You gave up that right a long time ago.”

“Scott-” Rafe’s voice is low and threatening.

Stiles whirlwinds out the door, backpack bouncing and flannel shirt flapping behind him as he walks. “See you tomorrow, Scott,” he calls out. His head is bent down and he smells so strongly of alarm that Scott feels his claws extend a millimeter more. He thinks of control and tries to will it into existence. 

“Stiles-”

But it’s Rafe who stops Stiles in his tracks, stepping between him and the staircase. Scott watches as Stiles seems to hit an invisible wall and wheels backwards to avoid touching Rafe. Thankfully, Scott’s hands are human once more when he reaches out to steady his friend. Stiles looks like he’s walked into a live wire when Scott’s hands touch his back, but he maneuvers himself until he’s closer to Scott than the stairs once he’s recovered.

“Woah, now, Stilinski,” Rafe says, smirking. “What’s the rush? Is something on fire?”

“Are you okay, dude?” Scott asks in a near whisper. Up close, Stiles is oozing fear, smelling like rancid garbage and Scott has to pant lightly to keep from gagging. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got to get home. I just thought of the perfect Oreo hiding spot.” Stiles makes no move forward, though. In fact, he backs up a little more until he’s halfway inside Scott’s room again. “But….uh, I think I dropped my phone in here somewhere...Scott, can you help me look?” 

“I’ll help,” Rafe offers. He goes to move past Scott, but frowns as his son doesn’t budge. “Want me to call it for you, Stiles?” he calls, pulling out his own phone. “Just holler out your number and-”

The surge of scents from his room overpower Scott’s nose: adrenaline, despair, and bile. His wolf whimpers and paws to be let out. “I think it’s best if you just left.”

“That’s ridiculous. Let me help you look for-”

Scott can hear Stiles’s heartbeat behind him, rapid and unsteady. “No.”

“You’re being very unreasonable, Scott. I’m going to make sure your mother knows-”

“Sounds like a great idea. Actually, let me just see if I can get ahold of her right now…” He pulls out his own phone and starts typing in 911, turning the screen just enough for his father to see it. 

“I have a right to see you, you know. Just because your mother and I split up, doesn’t mean I can’t-”

Scott presses the send button and the phone begins ringing. Rafe’s eyes narrow, but he starts down the stairs. “I’ll see you later then, kid,” he calls over his shoulder. “Hope you find your phone, Stiles!” The sound of the kitchen door slamming and tires squealing out of the driveway puts him more at ease and he can already sense a calming in the room behind him. Scott breathes out a breath he was unaware of holding.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

Scott blinks down at his phone. “Oh...uh...sorry. I must have accidentally pushed the emergency button on my phone.”

The dispatcher sounds irritated. “Okay. Please try to keep that from happening. We need the lines open for real emergencies.”

“Got it. I’m sorry again.”

When he goes back into his room, he finds it empty - Stiles’s heartbeat growing fainter as he’s already managed to rush past him and down the stairs. He’s halfway down the sidewalk when Scott finally realizes he’s gone. “Stiles!” he yells after him through the open window. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

“Gotta get home, Scotty! See you tomorrow!”

He tries to call Stiles’s phone, but it goes straight to voicemail and he growls in frustration. He’s about to wolf out so he can outrun the jeep and confront Stiles there, but his phone rings shrilly in his hand and he presses the answer button on reflex. He’s frowning when he hears the voice on the other side.

“Scott? It’s Derek. I need your help. It’s about Stiles…”

~*~  
Scott steps back as Derek slides into his window. “I have a front door, you know,” he jokes. When Derek doesn’t respond, he tries to school his features into something more serious. “So what’s up with Stiles that warrants you asking me for help?”

“He’s not sleeping.”

“I know. He gets that way when his meds get screwy. Probably just needs to tweak them or something. But that’s not my level of expertise….why do you need my help on this again?”

“Have you noticed anything else about Stiles lately? Anxiety? Fear?”

“Stiles is the walking epitome of anxiety, Derek.”

“Does he seem more anxious than normal lately, I mean? Since the lack of sleep started?”

Scott thinks. “Well, he’s been under a lot of pressure since his dad’s been under the FBI microscope…”

“Specifically your father’s microscope.”

“How-”

“Tell me about your father - Agent McCall.”

“Wow. Uh, have you had too much coffee today? I thought you wanted to talk about Stiles?”

“Scott,” Derek warns.

“He’s a dick. Split from my mom and hasn’t been around much since then. Sent one birthday card in the last five years. Why? I mean, I’m not sure why talking about my deadbeat dad’s going to help with Stiles getting more sleep...”

Derek whirls on him, fur starting to sprout on the tips of his ears. “Yesterday, when Stiles left school, your father caught up to him in the parking lot. Stiles was completely terrified when he saw him. And last night, I went to check to make sure he was sleeping and he was in the middle of a night terror. He thought your dad was in the room. I was this close to howling directly into his ear for him to wake up.”

Scott scratched his head. “He was acting weird just before you came over. My dad walked in the house unannounced and Stiles got really jumpy. Smelled like he was about to pee himself. He said he just wanted to get home and hide his dad’s Oreos, but he was really worked up. More so than usual. Just pushed past me to get out the door. I was actually about to chase after him when you called.”

Derek runs both hands aggressively through his hair. “But he was fine before that?”

“Yeah. He was almost asleep on my bed, actually. Really chill.” Scott takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “It’s weird, though, because he used to get panic attacks like this when we were younger. Before mom and dad split, he was pretty twitchy. Mom said she thought he was still dealing with his mom’s death and the doctors were messing with his meds….but he wasn’t this anxious until right before the accident-”

“The accident? Tell me about the accident.”

“I don’t remember! That’s what’s weird. I know there was an accident - mom says I fell down the stairs playing hide-and-seek, but I don’t remember it. I remember being in the hospital with a headache and I remember coming home and finding out my dad was moving out….but everything else just isn’t there.” Scott slumps down on his bed and stares at his hands. “Mom says it was a significant brain injury that just wiped that part of my memories….but she said Stiles was there and he doesn’t remember anything, either.” He looks up at Derek, scared. “That doesn’t sound right, does it?”

“No. It sounds like someone wants you not to know what happened.” Derek pulls out his phone and taps away for a moment. At Scott's puzzled look, he sighs. "Sent out a text for someone to check in on Stiles. He left here upset and your dad left at the same time - who's to say he didn't follow Stiles?"

"Shit," Scott breathes. He looks hopeful when Derek's phone dings with a new message only minutes later. "He's my best friend...I should-"

"Lydia just called him. He says he's going to bed and feeling tired, but he's alone. Chris says he's going to hang out outside the house just in case." Derek scratches at his chin thoughtfully. "I probably need to explain some things to the rest of the group - they don't know what's going on."

"I don't even know what's going on."

Derek digs a scruffy-looking notebook out from the recesses of his jacket and sits it on Scott’s lap. He opens it to a page. “Here. Look at this. I think Stiles’s memories are resurfacing and we can help him.” 

Scott’s brow is furrowed as he looks down at the notebook in front of him. He reads quickly and silently. Derek is pacing the length of his bedroom, agitated. Scott rereads the paragraphs, flips a page, and hums. 

“And you think this is the way to solve Stiles’s sleep problem? Help him by taking his memories?”

“It’s worth a shot. Anything’s got to be better than what he’s dealing with now.”

“It says only alphas can do the ritual.”

“You’re a true alpha. That’s gotta count for something.”

“It doesn’t say exactly where or how deep to go…”

“Then experiment.”

Scott looks up sharply. “I’ll kill him!”

“Not on Stiles, idiot. On me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging in there with me, folks. I'm whittling away at this monster plot....and I've gotta tell you, it's growing and changing with each time I sit down to write. Hope you liked this installment - more soon! (Life is hectic at the moment and I apologize for keeping you in suspense. I need more unbusy weekends and space in my head to let me write, you know?) Shoutout to my AMAZING beta - Joe Nuevo - for being the best encourager I've ever known. :) Thanks, man.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm messing a bit with the mythology of Talia's claws and memories....it won't stay true to canon, I'm sure. :( AU tag applies doubly now!

“I don’t think I can do this,” Scott says from behind him.  

 

Derek can sense the other wolf’s nervousness and smell the anxiety seeping off his body.  He sighs, soft and low. “You won’t hurt me,” he assures. “The worst that will happen is that you’ll give me a headache and leave a few scratches.”

 

“Or it works and I see your memories.  Derek, are you sure-” 

 

“Yes.”  Derek feels himself tense slightly as he turns to look at Scott from the corner of his eye.  He swallows slowly, bending his head to one side and loosening the tension with a quick crack.  “There’s nothing in there I wouldn’t want you to see.” His heartbeat isn’t steady, though.

 

“Really?”

 

“Open book.  Let’s get-”

 

“Nothing?”

 

The hand on Derek’s knee tingles as claws threaten to spring out. In his mind, he sees flames and smoke, smells burning flesh.  Another set of memories comes into focus, though, and he shudders as he sees Kate’s face in the flames. He breathes smoothly and guides his mind to safer thoughts.  “I’ve gotten pretty good at repressing my bad memories.”

 

“I’m sure you have, but isn’t that the whole point of doing this in the first place?  Look at memories we aren’t or don’t want to be aware of? To get to see those memories Stiles has repressed and won’t look at head first?”

 

“I don’t think they’re repressed at all, Scott.  I think he relives them every night.” Derek grits his teeth and shuts his eyes.  “We can’t wait forever. It’s now or I’m going to deal with this myself - trial run over.”

 

“No!”  Scott smells sharp with nervousness and Derek’s fangs descend in response.  “I mean, no. We need to try to do this on a werewolf first. If it doesn’t work, at least you won’t die.  Right?”

 

Derek twists just enough to grasp Scott’s hand and presses in - hard.  Claws sprout forth like a cat’s and gleam in the lamp light. “No more talking about it.  Do it.” He pushes the claws against the nape of his neck and waits. 

 

He hears Scott take a deep breath, feels tiny pin pricks of pain in his neck, then there’s nothing but blinding pain and the taste of ashes.

 

~*~

 

“Scott?”

 

Scott’s eyes flutter open and he coughs against the acrid taste of ash in his mouth.  His nose burns and his flesh feels tight, hot. There are still shadows around him. He blinks up at the darkest one.  “Derek?”

 

Derek’s face comes into focus then, concerned and above him.  “Did it work? What did you see?”

 

“I saw...oh, God…”  Scott’s up and in the bathroom, emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet before Derek has a chance to realize what’s happening.  “Water,” he gasps when he’s finished. Derek fills the tumbler on the counter from the sink and hands it over. 

 

“I assume you saw the fire….I’m sorry you had to see any of that.”

 

“I didn’t know,” Scott whispers.  He looks over at Derek, tears in his eyes.  “There were babies, Derek.  _ Babies _ .”  He gags and spits into the toilet again, rinses his mouth.  “How long was I in there?”

 

“Just over a minute.”

 

“Fuck.”  Scott stands on wobbly legs.  “It was like being there. Felt like hours.”  He washes his face at the sink, then goes to lie down on the bed.  “Do you still remember? Did I-”

 

“You didn’t extract the memory, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

 

“Shit.  Does the book say how to take memories?”

 

Derek leafs through the notebook.  “I think you’ve got to use some sort of principle of not only accessing the memories, but also pulling - like you pull pain when you’re healing.”

 

“How the hell am I supposed to do that?  I was barely even able to realize that I wasn’t actually there.”

 

“Maybe you need more practice.”

 

Scott coughs again.  “Do you have any memories that won’t make me puke?”

 

Derek frowns.  “Rest a bit. We’ll try again in a little bit.”

 

Derek gets him another glass of water, then hunches over the notebook, ignoring him.  Scott pushes the memories of smoke, fire, and screaming babies to the back of his head and lets his own mind wander.  Were there memories of Derek’s that he was unaware of? Were there things he kept secret only because they were secret to his own mind? And where would the memories he took go?  Would he be forced to relive them himself? He shudders at the thought. 

 

“Derek?”

 

“Hmmmm?”

 

“Do you think I could do the ritual to myself - get back the memories of the accident?”

 

Derek looks up at him, interested.  “I’m not sure that would be a good idea.  I’m not sure how you would stop pulling from your own head.  I had to forcibly pull your claws from my neck when you started losing consciousness.”

 

“Oh.”  Scott rubs at his nose.  “I just wish I could find out what happened then.  It’s weird not knowing. And I don’t like the thought that mom’s lying to me.  We were supposed to be a team.”

 

Derek flips another page, then another.  “Wait,” he says, still reading. “I think...I have an idea.  Are you willing to try something?”

 

“Is it gonna make me puke again?”

 

“I can’t guarantee that it won’t….but there’s a way that I might be able to jar some of your memories loose.”

 

Scott sits up on his elbows.  “How?”

 

“The only things left by my mother after the fire were her claws - claws of a powerful, evolved alpha wolf that still hold some of her power. Deaton had them placed in a special box for safe keeping.  If I can get her claws, I can use them to help you with your memories and maybe Stiles’s.”

 

“Where are they?”

 

“A safe place.”  Derek gets up, tucks the notebook back into his jacket, and heads towards the window.  “Coming with?”

 

“Yeah.  But I’m using the door.”  Scott places a hand on his head as he gets up, dizzy.  “I’m not sure I can jump out of the window just yet.”

 

~*~

Deaton sighs.  “You want Talia’s claws?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“There are memories that I-”

 

Derek holds up a hand to keep Scott from talking any further.  “I’m her son. I deserve to have what’s left of my mother.”

 

Deaton frowns and shakes his head.  “I don’t approve of this. Whatever you’re thinking, whatever cockeyed idea the two of you came up with is surely not a good one.”

 

“Just help me open the box, Deaton.”  Derek steps closer to the emissary, who doesn’t seem affected by his threatening stance.  “I know it’s in the family cellar under the school, but Scott and I can’t get to them without human help.  If you won’t help us, I’ll get someone who can.”

 

They stand staring at each other for a moment before Scott pulls his phone out.  “Think Lydia or Allison will be up for assisting?”

 

Deaton rolls his eyes.  “Fine. But don’t cry to me when this backfires.  And it will backfire, Derek.”

 

Scott smiles widely as they follow Deaton to the parking lot.  “I’m getting pretty good at threatening people with just my phone today,” he boasts to himself.  “Maybe better than using my wolf powers…”

 

~*~

“Woah,” Scott says once Deaton’s retrieved a cylindrical box from deep inside the trunk of mountain ash.  “They’re in there?”

 

“Yes.”  Deaton turns the box over and over in his hands.  “I made this specially for your mother’s claws and kept them in this trunk as a means to keep them safe from the wrong hands.  It’s your duty now to keep them safe. If you cannot get them back into this trunk, you need to tell me immediately. There are beings all over that would kill to have this power for themselves.”

 

Derek takes the box from Deaton and turns it over in his hands.  It’s heavier than he remembers. He lifts it to start to shake it, but Deaon stops him.  

 

“Look harder,” he urges, pointing to the bottom.

 

There are five slits in the wood, carved perfectly in the shape of extended wolf claws.  Derek stares at them, puzzled. “What happens if I…” Instead of waiting for an answer, he flicks his claws out on one hand and inserts them into the box.  Without warning, sharp pain floods his nail beds. He screams.

 

Scott covers his ears.  Deaton’s mouth has become a thin, straight line.  Blood drips down Derek’s wrist and he pants as he tries to overcome the searing hot sensation on each fingertip.  “What-”

 

“You’ve now taken on your mother’s claws.  Use them carefully - they are a precious commodity of a gifted were.  If fallen into the wrong hands….”

 

“Okay.  Okay,” Derek gasps, pulling his hand free from the box.  On the end of each fingertip is a sharp claw - so strange on his hand, but familiar.  He finds that he can’t retract them, though, and he looks at Deaton for help.

 

“They’re not a part of you - not really.  Just a prop. But they have merged with your hand enough that it would take quite a bit of force to take off without the box.”  Deaton slides one finger down the claw on Derek’s pinky and both shudder at the sensation. “Once you’ve finished the ritual, simply put your hand back inside and they will pop off.  As long as the box and the claws stay intact, you can repeat this as many times as necessary.” 

 

“And it feels like that every time I-”

 

“Yes.  I’m sure your mother would want there to be some sort of trial to using her claws, Derek.  Nothing magical comes for free.”

 

Scott squints as he investigates Derek’s hand.  “That’s pretty cool. And they have all of her alpha powers?”

 

“They have all that and more.”  Deaton’s eyes shine in the dim light of the cellar.  “Don’t be surprised, Derek, if Talia herself makes an appearance while you’re playing hero.”  With that, he’s gone.

 

“Now what?” Scott says, still looking at Derek’s claws.  

 

“Now, we try to find out what happened when you fell down the stairs.”

 

~*~

It’s strange being inside Scott’s memories.  It’s not like watching a movie, either - it’s full living color, sounds, smells…  It’s also strange because everything is muted to Derek. The memories are human and it feels like every orifice has been stuffed with cotton.  He looks around at Scott’s room, takes in the childhood bedspread and random toys spread across the floor. It’s night time and warm. Faintly, he can hear someone walking down the stairs, creaking as Derek’s used to hearing when he visits the McCall house now.  

 

Adult footsteps.  

 

He listens harder, hears voices.  Melissa’s probably….and Rafe’s. Soft, but gathering in intensity.  Derek winces as he hears the sounds of fighting, of a physical altercation.  He’s on his (Scott’s) small human feet and heading towards the hallway in an instant.  His own mind and instincts shout at him to run, to find out what’s happening downstairs immediately, but the memory is more static than he’s realized and instead, he’s left stumbling towards the staircase on prepubescent legs and sleepy human stability.  

 

Peering downstairs, he can’t see anything - it’s too dark for Scott’s human eyes. He can hear Scott’s parents arguing from down below, though, clearer than before.  “Mom? Dad?” Scott’s voice calls out. 

 

“Everything’s fine, honey,” Melissa yells out to him.  She sounds as if she’s agitated, but trying to pretend she’s not.  Scott’s body fills with conflicting emotions of apprehension and comfort.  “Just go back to bed.”

 

His father’s voice is raspy in the darkness.  He sounds as if he’s in pain. Scott’s fear grows at the sound of it.  “I...I fell down, Scott. Your mother’s trying to call the hospital, but I’m okay.  I’ll be just fine.” Derek grits his own teeth as he can hear Rafe murmuring to Melissa just out of hearing range.  He’s frustrated at the inability to act, the desentization of his senses, and the myriad of questions that will be left unasked because this isn’t his memory.

 

Scott’s legs carry him closer to the scuffle as he starts babbling to his parents about going to the hospital and Derek nearly gasps when Scott’s memory shows Stiles huddled at the bottom of the stairs.  “Stiles?” Scott asks. The younger version of Stiles is nearly comatose - not responsive to Scott’s words or touch. His eyes are glazed, looking past Scott into the living room. “What’s wrong with Stiles?”

 

What happens next nearly makes Derek pull his hand from Scott’s neck - Rafe charges Scott, offers to take care of Stiles with a sickeningly sweet and scary tone.  Derek’s hackles raise - he can feel his corporeal body wanting to shift, but he tamps it down and forges forward into the memory. Melissa lunges at both of them, striking Rafe over and over.  Rafe’s hand is back too fast, too strong, and Derek finds himself in Scott’s body, struck against the chin, and sailing through the air as he tries desperately to grab onto the banister. The sensation of falling and hitting the ground is surreal, but he can’t stop anything.  He can’t fix it. He can’t change the past. He wants to growl and claw and maim, but he’s stationary as the Scott in the memory begins to lose consciousness. The last thing he sees before the memory cuts off is Stiles’s blank expression.

 

~*~

It’s Derek’s turn to fight nausea when he comes to.  He swallows thickly and clears his throat to keep the sickness at bay and only barely does.  His hand throbs from around his mother’s claws. He takes deep gulps of air and winces as he’s bombarded by the smells, sounds, and sharpness his werewolf body can sense again.  Scott is laying on the ground of the cellar, crying, and Derek stumbles backwards into a shelf before he can recover his own sense of self. Books and trinkets fall around him as he tries to right himself.  “Scott?” he asks gingerly. 

 

“Stiles,” the boy cries.  “Oh my God...what...I can’t….I don’t even know what happened….what else don’t we know?”  

 

Derek takes some deep breaths, closes his eyes and opens them when he sees the face of Rafe McCall again.  “I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but I think we need to talk to your mother.”

 

~*~

 

Meanwhile, across town, John arrives home and is surprised to see Stiles in front of the television downstairs.  “Can’t sleep?” he asks, taking off his holster and jacket at the door. When Stiles doesn’t answer him, he laughs.  “Absorbed in what?” He peers in at the screen and frowns. “Jeopardy? At three in the morning? If that doesn’t put you to sleep…”

 

All around the sofa and coffee table are empty cans of energy drinks. John frowns again.  “Trying to stay awake? What’s wrong?” He comes into the living room and looks at his son more closely.  Stiles is awake, blinking every few seconds, but he seems like he’s not hearing John at all. His eyes are not seeing the television.  In fact, he’s not seeing anything. His body is shaking slightly and John’s adrenaline kicks in as he realizes something’s not right. “Stiles!” he yells.  He grabs him by the arms and shakes him. “Stiles, wake up!” 

 

A press of fingers to Stiles’s pulse tells him his heart is racing.  He takes Stiles’s face in his hands and slaps both cheeks. A thin rope of saliva rolls out of Stiles’s mouth and his eyes roll back into his head.  John cries out as his son slumps over onto the couch, body wracked with convulsions. 

 

Without another thought, he’s got his cell phone out, dialing the emergency line.  “Hello? Tina? This is Sheriff Stilinski - my boy’s having a seizure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's a bit shorter...but it makes for a good chapter break. Hoping to get some time on the computer this weekend to pound out the next installment. Don't worry - I will eventually fix broken Stiles. I love him too much to make him suffer forever. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *TRIGGER WARNING - CREEPY RAFE, INDICATIONS OF CHILD PREDATOR BEHAVIOR*

“Derek…”  Chris’s voice sounds both winded and panicked.  “Where are you?”

 

The hairs on the back of Derek’s neck stand straight up.  “My family’s vault. Why? Was he followed?”

 

“No, it’s not that.  But the ambulance just pulled up to the Stilinski house - sirens and lights, the whole shebang.”

 

“Was he alone?”

 

“The sheriff pulled up a few minutes before the ambulance.  I was actually about to head home when they came down the road.”  Chris clears his throat. “Listen, whoever you thought was after Stiles couldn’t have gotten in.  I swear I watched every square inch of the perimeter-”

 

Derek disconnects the call immediately.  “We’ve got to go. Stiles is in trouble.”

 

“My dad?”  Scott’s voice is small.

 

“Not sure.”  Derek lets the uncomfortable tingle of the shift take over his body and winces when his own claws are unable to emerge where his mother’s are placed.  “But we’ve got to get there fast. Let’s run.”

 

~*~

By the time they get to the Stilinski house, it’s quiet.  The living room lights are on and the front door is unlocked, so they let themselves in.  Derek growls low in his chest at the sight. A few random pieces of litter from the EMTs are scattered on the carpet along with a half-dozen empty cans.  Scott winces as he smells the sharp scent of vomit near the coffee table. “What happened?”

 

Derek tosses the empty energy drink can he’d been studying back on the floor.  “Looks like Stiles was trying to stay awake again.” He looks around helplessly, then huffs a deep sigh.  “This thing is escalating and we can’t waste anymore time. Can you try to call your mom? See what she knows?”

 

Scott fiddles with his phone and presses it to his ear, but shakes his head after a moment.  “It’s going straight to voicemail.”

 

“You head to the hospital, then.  I’m going to see what I can find out from Chris.  Call me when you know something.”

 

“You’re not-”

 

“Look,” Derek says firmly, “Stiles and I aren’t exactly best friends, Scott.  We don’t hang out when it’s not something supernatural or pack-related. Don’t you think it’ll look weird if I just show up at the hospital?”

 

“No.  I think people will understand.”

 

“You have a lot of faith in those around you.  I don’t have that luxury.” With that, Derek’s gone and Scott is left standing in the chaos of his best friend’s pain.

~*~

“Scott!”  

 

He’s met in the corridor of the emergency room wing by the sheriff.  John looks frazzled and worn down, the dark circles under his eyes prominent on his tired face.  Scott offers him a small smile.

 

“Hey, Mr. Stilinski.  How’s Stiles?”

 

“How’d you-”

 

“Uh...I stopped by the house a few minutes ago because he wasn’t answering his phone.”  He scuffs the toe of his shoe on the floor. “The paramedics left kind of a mess. I thought it was you, actually.”

 

John sighs.  “No, he’s….” He rubs a hand roughly over his face, then sinks down in a nearby chair.  “He overdosed on caffeine. Had a seizure. They’ve pumped his stomach and hooked him up to some medications to keep from giving him brain damage, but….”  John swallows thickly. “He’d been having nightmares again and he was usually awake when I’d get home from shift, but I figured he knew if he needed his meds adjusted or something. I’ve been meaning to get him in to see Dr. Gardner again, but I’ve been working some crazy shifts with the FBI on my ass… I’m just….What kind of father doesn’t make time for this stuff?”

 

Scott sits down next to him.  “You can’t blame yourself, though.  It doesn’t help anyone.” He takes a shuddery breath of his own, fighting back the sting of tears.  “I knew he wasn’t sleeping well for a while, but I was like you - figured Stiles knew himself enough to get help if he needed it.”  

 

“John?”  They both look up when Melissa strides down the hallway, clipboard in hand.  She gives Scott a quick glance before guiding the sheriff up and giving the appearance of being out of earshot of her son.  She gives Scott a meaningful look before she starts talking. “He’s resting now, but the doctor says he’s suffering from pretty severe sleep deprivation.  He wants Stiles to be put under watch for 24 hours and sedated until his body can properly recuperate from the ordeal.” She passes the clipboard over to him, with a pen.  “If you consent to treatment, you need to sign here.”

 

John signs quickly, not looking over the paperwork more than a glance.  

 

“Look - I know you’re probably blaming yourself for this, but it’s not your fault.  Dr. Gardner will make sure Stiles is stable and then you can figure out what’s really going on here.  It’s not like Stiles to…” She clears her throat roughly and shakes her head. “You should probably get some rest yourself,” Melissa chides, putting a hand on his shoulder.  “Want me to get you a cot?”

 

“Yeah.  That would be great.”  He looks over at Scott, who’s watching them with sad eyes.  “One for him, too?”

 

“Sure.  Let’s get Stiles comfortable first.  Want to see him before he’s asleep for a while?”

 

“Yes.”

 

~*~

 

Stiles is swimming.  

 

He can hear Scott’s laughter and splashing from behind him.  His ninja turtle swim trunks are just on this side of too tight, but he can’t be bothered.  The summer sun is shining and he’s enjoying an afternoon with his best friend in the McCalls’ backyard.  Sure, the pool isn’t as cool as Lydia Martin’s in-ground beauty, but he and Scott are more than happy to have the short, squatty quick set Mr. McCall bought them last week.  A multi-colored beach ball floats past him on the waves and he smiles as he turns to see what his friend is giggling about. The bright sunshine glitters on the water of the pool and blinds him momentarily as he turns.  He claps a hand over his eyes.

 

“Marco!” Scott screams excitedly.  

 

“Polo!” he calls back, laughing as his voice cracks.  

 

He blinks against the sunlight, looking across the water for his friend.  Above him, though, stands Mr. McCall - tall and dark in contrast to the day.  He’s smiling at Stiles, eyes running downward as it turns into something more sinister.  

 

“Need more sunscreen, Stiles?” he asks, voice lilting a little at the end.  It makes Stiles’s stomach swoop and burn. “I can help you get the middle of your back…”

 

“Stiles?”

 

He turns towards Mrs. McCall’s voice.  It’s out of place - she’s been working days for a few weeks now - and he squints as he tries to make out her shape in the brightness.  She’s far away, just behind Mr. McCall. Stiles takes a step towards her. Scott hollers and splashes as he jumps in and out of the pool over and over - it distracts him.  Stiles turns back around, looking for Scott now…

 

“Scott?”

 

“No,” Mr. McCall’s voice teases from near Stiles’s ear, “not Scott…”

 

He jerks away and spins around, searching for Melissa.  “Mrs. McCall?”

 

“Try again, Stiles…”  

 

He turns quickly at the voice that he can’t seem to escape and shoves away from the man standing behind him, dark eyes and smirk sending shivers up his spine.  From the far corner of the yard, though, he can see a darker shadow and hear his father’s voice calling to him. He peers past Mr. McCall’s cheshire grin. His father _is_ there, running and reaching out to him….

 

“Daddy!”

 

“Stiles?  I’m here, son.”

 

A warm hand grips his own and Stiles feels the world shake and shatter around him, his eyes fluttering open when he was sure they’d been open already.  But he’s not in the backyard anymore. He sees his father above him, concerned but alone. “Dad?” All around them are white walls, beeping sounds, and sharp sterile scent.  His mouth tastes disgusting, his teeth gritty.

 

“Oh, thank God,” John exhales.  He squeezes Stiles’s hand more tightly and lays over him gingerly to squeeze him.  

 

“Hospital?” Stiles croaks. “What-”  

 

“Try not to talk, Stiles,” says Melissa from his other side.  She’s fiddling with tubes and wires that stretch from his forearm to an IV stand.  “You’ve been through a lot in the last couple hours. It’s best that you rest now.”  She looks over at John. “Anything you need to say before…?”

 

John shakes his head.  “No.” He gives Stiles a sad smile.  “Glad you came back to us, son. I’m going to stay here with you - Scott, too.  Just rest, okay?”

 

Stiles’s mind whirs and whizzes inside his head - the sound of water splashing and kids playing is stereo.  He fights to stay here in the hospital with his father. “Wait, what’s going on? What’s happening? Why am I-”  His eyes slide closed slowly and his words slur and cease.

 

“The doctor says this is for the best,” Melissa tells John as she checks Stiles’s vitals once more.  “He’s severely sleep deprived. A few hours and he’ll be awake again. Meds will be adjusted….he’s going to be okay.”  She squeezes his shoulder before leaving the room.

 

Inside Stiles’s mind, though, Rafe McCall is grinning down at him.

 

~*~

Derek digs his phone out of his pocket as it starts buzzing, not wanting to call attention to himself.  “Just a minute,” he whispers hoarsely into the phone, then ducks around the corner to a safer place. “Scott?”

 

“He overdosed on caffeine.  They’re putting him under sedation and watching him for 24 hours.”

 

Derek inhales sharply.  “So he’ll be asleep that long?”

 

“No, just a little while until his body can rest.”  Scott sighs into the phone. “He’s sleeping….does that mean he’s dreaming?  Or do you think the medication will keep him from dreaming?”

 

“Let’s hope it’s the latter,” Derek says, thinking about Stiles being trapped inside his own head with his version of Rafe…  “Are you able to stay with him at all?”

 

“Yeah.  Mom’s got the sheriff and I a place to crash here while we wait.  Where are you?”

 

“Attending to business.”  Derek looks over at the hotel room’s window, now darkened.  “Can you talk to your mom at all?”

 

“I don’t think-”

 

“Don’t worry about it for now.  I have a plan.”

 

“What-”

 

“I’ll see you later.”  He ends the call before Scott can respond and shoves his phone back into his pocket.  The air around the hotel is still. He watches the dark window for a few more minutes before slipping into the night.

 

~*~

“Mom?”

 

Melissa looks up from the computer where she’s logging charts.  It’s dark in the hospital and nearly quiet. She asked to be switched from the ER to the floor Stiles was being kept on and Glenda graciously took her spot.  Now, Scott’s standing at the counter, looking at her with sad eyes. She purses her lips. “Everything okay?”

 

“No.  It’s not.”

 

She stands up immediately, hand going to her hospital cell.  “Stiles?”

 

“It’s not...I mean, it’s about Stiles, but…”  He puts a hand on hers and she allows him to take the cell phone away from her and put it in her scrub pocket.  “He’s okay right now, but I don’t think he’s always been okay.”

 

“What-?”  


Scott’s eyes are dark and serious. “I need to know what happened the night of my accident.”

 

Alarm bells go off inside her head and guilt rushes through her body.  “That doesn’t have anything to do with-”

 

“That’s not true.  I think it has _everything_ to do with Stiles.  Don’t ask me how I remember, but know that I do.”  Scott swallows against the sick feeling in his stomach as his mother’s scent goes sour with anxiety and shame.  “I remember what happened right before I fell, but I need to know what happened before that.”

 

“Before the accident?”

 

Scott nods.  

 

“I don’t know.”  Melissa looks around the empty corridor.  Scott grips her elbow firmly and forces her to look at him.  She swallows thickly. “Your father and I were arguing and you fell off the stairs.  That’s it.”

 

“Arguing about what?”  When she shakes her head, he fights back a growl.  “Something happened that night. Something to do with Stiles.  When I remember that night, I can see him crouched in a corner, almost catatonic.  Even if it’s got nothing to do with Stiles specifically, something happened that made him like that.”  He squeezes her elbow harder. “He’s having nightmares and Derek says he’s talking to dad when he’s having them.”

 

Melissa’s eyes shimmer with unshed tears.  “I don’t know what this has to do with-”

 

Scott feels his nails tingling, claws threatening to come out.  He bites the inside of his cheeks and winces when sharper-than-human teeth scrape along the soft tissues.  He takes a breath. “Please,” he whispers. “He’s my best friend.”

 

“I told him to leave.”  Her voice punches out of her and hangs in the air between them.  “Your father. I told him that night that he had to get out. He….something wasn’t right with him then.  He’d been drinking a lot after Claudia passed and that evening was no different. But I came home early and found him in the living room...”  She stops and swallows audibly. The scent of her anxiety grows thicker. “He was watching Stiles sleep.”

 

“He was watching Stiles sleep?”  Scott’s face screws up in confusion.  “But he always checked in on us. Stiles was having nightmares after his mom died and dad always wanted to make sure Stiles was okay.  That’s not-” His father’s voice from the memory drifts through his mind - _I’ll take care of Stiles_ \- and he shivers.  “That’s not _all_ he was doing, was it?”  His stomach lurches violently.

 

Melissa takes a shuddery breath, tears making their way down her cheeks.  “I didn't have concrete evidence of that, no, but…. He tried to tell me he was uncomfortable around your father. I thought it was nothing, just you boys growing up and becoming more modest….until that evening, I believed it.”  She dashes the tears away from her face with force. “Stiles said he was fine. He asked me not to say anything…”

 

Scott lets go of her arm and staggers backwards.  “What?”

 

“Scott, please!  I wanted to have him talk to someone about it - anyone!  But he told me he didn’t want his dad to know what happened that night.  He didn’t want you to know.” She crumples into the chair behind her, hands pressing against her temples.  

 

“I…” He backs down the hallway rapidly, prickles of shifting starting in his hands, feet, and jaw.  “I’ve got to go.”

 

“Scott, wait!”

 

But Scott’s outside the hospital and down the street in record time, howling as he runs.

 

~*~

Rafe’s lounging on the cheap, ugly hotel comforter, remote in one hand and beer in the other.  Derek’s lip curls in disgust. It’s been mostly quiet in the parking lot and Rafe has been boring to watch.  Microwave dinner, shower, six-pack of beer, and television. Derek runs an experimental finger over one sharp claw tip and hisses as it slices the skin.  There’s heat and an itch as it heals.

 

Derek looks up sharply when he hears Scott’s anguished howl.  It screams of pain, misery, betrayal and loss.

 

“It’s now or never,” he growls to himself, then launches his body into the hotel room door.  It splinters around him and he lands in a pile on the shag carpet.

 

Rafe’s up, gun drawn before the dust has settled.  “You’re a real shitty private eye, Hale. Of course, not a lot to see.  But this? Breaking and entering?” He tsks as Derek gets up off the ground.  “Let me see your hands!”

 

Derek’s toothy smile makes the human shudder.  “With pleasure,” he says, stepping forward.

 

One hand is extended, but Rafe doesn’t have enough time to process the elongated claws at the fingertips before he’s wrestled to the ground, disarmed.  He tries to call out, but finds he can’t - a sharp pinch at the base of his neck and he’s no longer in the hotel.

 

Instead, he’s standing in the moonlight, watching a younger Stiles sleep.

~*~

Soft, even breaths.  Stiles’s chest, covered by a worn black shirt, expands and dips with each one, lips parted ever so slightly.  His dark eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as he dreams.

 

Derek watches as his - no _Rafe’s_ \- hand extends and hovers millimeters above the boy’s ribcage and slides downwards in a mimicry of a caress.  Even with the more human senses Derek’s experiencing, he can feel the warmth under his palm. He feels Rafe’s face pull into a fond smile as his hand pauses above Stiles’s belly.  

 

“Beautiful boy,” he whispers to the darkness.

 

It must be enough, though, to rouse Stiles a bit because the boy twitches in his slumber and turns away from the ghost touch.  He reaches out and grasps the corner of his pillow; he mumbles something that Derek can’t hear, even with straining.

 

Beside Stiles, Scott sighs and flops away from his heat.  One arm slips off the side of the bed. Derek feels the urge to run, adrenaline rushing through Rafe’s body at the movements.  But, it’s quickly replaced by the heat of arousal as Rafe takes in Stiles’s back, sees that the shirt has ridden up to show a thin strip of tanned skin above ratty Batman boxer shorts.  His eyes linger over the curve of his body and Derek gags, despite himself.

 

His hand wrenches away from Rafe’s neck and they’re both gasping on the floor of the hotel.  Rafe’s eyes roll about in his head as he reaches back to investigate his injuries. For a brief moment, Derek thinks he’s given him brain damage, but then the human finds his bearings and turns a hard glare at Derek.  “What the hell was that?”

 

“You sick fuck,” Derek rumbles.  He stalks forward, feeling the tingle of the change starting and he welcomes it.  He barely notices the blood dripping from his hand, nor the sound of approaching feet on the concrete outside the door.

 

“Derek!”

 

~*~

“You think he’ll be out much longer?”

 

Melissa starts at John’s voice, hands trembling as she checks the monitors and machines around Stiles’s bed.  The sheriff yawns and stretches as he sits up on his cot. His face is haggard. “Too early to tell,” she admits.  “Doctor will be in around 8 for rounds. I have Stiles penciled in near the top of the list.” She sighs and presses her palm lightly to his forehead.  

 

“Everything looking up to par?” John asks.

 

“I…”  Melissa takes a deep breath.  “I need to talk to you about something.”

 

John’s worried eyes scan his son’s body.  “He’s okay, right?”

 

“Physically, yes.”  

 

“Okay…”

 

“I just…,” she bites her lip and turns to look at him.  “When Claudia died, Stiles...he went through a trauma that none of us really ever realized.”

 

“He was depressed.  I know. We all were.”

 

“No.  I mean…,” she sits next to him on the cot, taking his hands in hers.  Her eyes fill with tears. “When he was with us, in our home, I tried my very best to take care of him - to make sure he was safe.  I thought he was safe. But…”

 

“But what?”  John drops her hands, face hardening.  

 

“Dad?”

 

Both look over at the bed, where Stiles is groggily blinking and squinting against the early morning light.  John’s at his side immediately.

 

“Hey, son.  You feeling better?”

 

“Yeah?  Maybe? What time is it?”  

 

Neither one notices when Melissa slinks out of the room.

 

~*~

“Derek, wait!”

 

“No, Scott,” Derek rumbles, teeth baring at the human on the ground.  “If you saw what-”

 

Scott’s hand on his shoulder is somewhat grounding, though.  “You can’t kill him.”

 

“The hell I can’t.”

 

Rafe looks between them, disorientation dissolving into anger.  “What the hell did you do to me?” He glances down at the hand he’d swiped along the back of his neck.  It’s covered in blood. “Scott, get away from him.”

 

“Dad, wait!”  Scott steps between the two of them, pushing lightly on Derek’s chest to keep him back.  To Derek, he says lowly, “What happens if you kill him? The sheriff comes and carts you off to jail…”

 

“I’d run.  He won’t be able to catch me.”

 

“For now.  But then what?  They issue a nationwide search for you and…”

 

“There are places to go where I can’t be found.”

 

“For years?”

 

Derek nods once, eyes still locked on Rafe.

 

Scott swallows thickly, staring down at his father for a long moment.  “He’s still my dad. And even though I'm on your side here, we need to let the system work for us.  You can't run forever and he can't, either.”

 

Derek’s stomach twists as Rafe’s face dissolves into a grin.  

 

“Good boy,” he coos in the direction of his son.  “Step away from him, Scott. I don’t want you getting hurt by this monster.”  

 

“ _ You’re _ the monster,” Derek growls.  The claws on his hand throb. Scott pushes on his chest even harder and Derek forces back his own wolf.  He shudders with the effort it takes.

 

“You assaulted  _ me _ , Mr. Hale.  Those things aren’t taken lightly - especially when you assault an officer of the law.”  He begins crawling towards the nightstand.

 

“We know what you did,” Scott says as Rafe’s hand curls around his cell phone.  “To Stiles…”

 

The man on the floor hesitates for a moment.  “I don’t know what you’re even talking about.”

 

Derek’s fangs pierce his lips.  “You-”

 

“Stop,” Scott says firmly, eyes flashing as he looks at Derek head on.  “This isn’t our fight.”

 

“The hell it isn’t.  He’s your best friend.”

 

“It isn't  _ just _ our fight.  We have to do this the right way - to keep more people from getting hurt.” At Derek’s grunt of displeasure, he adds, “He's going to pay for what he did, believe me.”  

 

Derek wants to whine, wants to leap forward and slice with both hands until there’s nothing left of the man who touched Stiles.  Instead, he gags violently as the memories of being inside Rafe’s mind come to the forefront. He coughs and spits thick bile from his throat.  “If you could see, though, what I saw...Stiles can’t take care of this on his own.” His eyes water. 

 

Scott juts out his chin defiantly.  “Stiles isn’t defenseless and he isn’t alone.” He moves quickly and takes his father’s cell phone out of his hand, crushing it without much effort. “I think it would be a bad idea for you to make any phone calls right now,” he says lowly.  

 

Rafe skitters backwards on the floor until his back is against the wall.  “You...what are you-? Are you taking drugs? Does your mother-”

 

“Shut up!” Scott growls, gliding forward until he’s crouched above his father.  For once, his dad looks small.  Scott looks back at Derek. “Look, if we’re going to get anywhere on this, we need Stiles’s testimony.  We need the truth that no one seems to want to tell us.”

 

“But what if he won’t talk?”

 

“Stiles?  Not talking?” Scott’s laugh is cold and humorless.  

 

“He hasn’t before…”

 

“He hasn’t had anyone else to lean on about this before.”  Scott’s eyes burn with pain, throat tight. “I’m sure that once he gets it off his shoulders, he’ll get better.  He’ll _sleep_.”

 

Derek’s mind whirs through the thousands of his own memories that wreak pain and havoc in his soul and settles on the one with Paige laying in his lap, limp and lifeless.  He hadn’t slept for months afterwards, almost stayed shifted for the same length of time. Had it been different if Peter had…? He shakes his head, but visions of Kate come to the forefront - her blue eyes laughing and wide smile sinister as she hurt him again and again…  He feels the pang of regret as he recalls fleeing Beacon Hills with Cora and allowing Peter to kill the Darach… 

 

Each time his power was stripped away, he felt so alone.  The thought of being the one to actually take back his power, though?  If only he’d been able to fight back...

 

His chest tightens as he realizes Scott’s right.  “Fine. But it’s on Stiles’s terms, not  _ his _ .”

 

“I can deal with that.”  

 

“Go,” Scott breathes.  “Find Stiles.” He leans down closer to his father, boxing him him, then glances up at Derek’s hand. Talia’s claws nearly glisten in the dim light.  “If you can’t get him to open up, you’ll have to convince him that it’s time to stop bottling everything up.”

 

Derek’s gone within seconds.  Scott turns to his father, the hairs on the back of his neck stiffening and lengthening somewhere between human and wolf.  “I want the truth,” he hisses, “and don’t think I can’t tell when you’re lying….”

 


End file.
